


The End is Where We Start From

by cognomen



Category: Supernatural, due South
Genre: M/M, cognomen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-22
Updated: 2011-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 15:43:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 43,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 5 Supernatural meets Season 3 due South.<br/>He knows he should just shut his big mouth, go get in his damn car, and drive out to Yahooland, Illinois and count the wild goose chase as some kind of mini-vacation, but this had to be the oldest urban legend in the book. The only thing Ray was finding harder to believe than it was that the yokels who called it in were actually serious. What where they doing all the way out there in a sewer culvert, even?</p><p>"Crocodiles in the sewer. Really?" he finds himself saying, to Welsh's  darkening expression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Cmon this has gotta be a joke," Ray argues - but the chief has a look in his eye which long experience tells Ray that all his arguments are going to be useless.

He knows he should just shut his big mouth, go get in his damn car, and drive out to Yahooland, Illinois and count the wild goose chase as some kind of mini-vacation, but this had to be the oldest urban legend in the book. The only thing Ray was finding harder to believe than it was that the yokels who called it in were actually serious. What where they doing all the way out there in a sewer culvert, even?

"Crocodiles in the sewer. _Really_?" he finds himself saying, to Welsh's darkening expression.

"Kowalski," Welsh warns, in a 'five-seconds-until-detonation' tone, and Ray drops the whole issue before the sparks being spat at him now turn into a full out conflagration. It's bad for the Lieutenant's blood pressure to be that mad all the time. A man of his years probably should have a little less trouble from not-so-punk-age cops sometimes, anyway. Ray's cool. He can let it go. "Those _yahoos_ have already called the press, who are on-scene with no police presence in sight and making a giant fuss about how unsafe things are for the children of Chicago. Get down there and make us look good."

"Alright," Ray says, tossing his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender and going to gather cruiser keys and hit the sign-out sheet before taking to the road. Hell if he's paying gas to the far corners of DuPage county, or risking having to stick an animal carcass in the back seat of his _actual_ car. It was bad enough what Diefenbaker did to the back seats already.

So maybe it _is_ a long drive for nothing, Ray likes driving. He likes the quiet, the focus on the road and the way music sounds in a car. He'll have to deal with the shitty speakers and the cop-chatter every five minutes, but that's not so bad, it's still some good old fashioned Ray-time. On the way to sewercroc central, just Ray, some music and-

"Ray?"

Fraser.

Ray's grinning before he can help it, so when he looks up and sees one traffic-light-red uniform taking up - whoa, way too much of his field of vision. Personal space, hello. Ray must have really been lost in his thoughts, there, because he suddenly gets the impression that it's him who almost walked into Fraser instead of the other way around. Diefenbaker sits patiently at his feet, staring at Ray with his ears pushed all the way forward and his head tilted, as if waiting to see the fallout from the two humans running headlong into each other and disappointed.

He backs up enough so that he can see more of Fraser, and waves the keys so they can talk as they walk. "Hey buddy, you up for a drive?"

"Certainly, Ray," Fraser answers, and he falls into step without even bringing up the fact that Ray's head had been in the clouds just seconds before. Maybe a lot of people didn't think he was that thoughtful, but Fraser knew better at least - he'd seen that Ray did a lot of thinking when left to himself. Or maybe he just smelled it or something. Mountie sense. "May I inquire as to the purpose of our trip?"

"Alligators in the sewers," Ray answers seriously, looking straight ahead but sneaking a glance sidelong to catch the expressions going over Fraser's face as he deciphers the statement.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ray," Fraser begins, and Ray can't stop himself from grinning because he already _knows_ exactly what's coming. "But I was under the impression that alligators living in the sewers were an urban legend."

"Lieutenant Welsh's orders," Ray grins, and shrugs his shoulders, "I tried to argue but..."

"Ah," Fraser acknowledges, tactfully, as he lets himself into the cruiser once Ray's unlocked it. Ray holds the door open for Diefenbaker to jump into the back seat and is glad the wolf's claws won't be on _his_ upholstery for once. "Well it might have something to do with the story I heard on the news just prior to my arrival-"

"You watch TV?" Ray asks with genuine surprise as he jams the seat back on its runners since apparently the previous driver of the cruiser had been a gnome of some variety.

"Not regularly, no, but the consulate is currently housing a guest with a rather advanced case of hearing loss, and _he_ was keeping up with the news," Fraser began, and Ray wonders for about the thousandth time why the guy can't ever not tell the whole story and instead just make things simple. Maybe for Fraser that would be like lying. "So, rather I heard the story while I was on-duty due to the unusually loud volume of the consulate's television set."

"Okay, _and?_ " Ray asks, starting the car and wiggling the mirror before he backs out so it'll actually be useful, before he turns around to watch behind them as he goes.

"It seems they've pulled a record-length saltwater crocodile skin out of a sewer culvert west of here," Fraser says, "The previous record being anywhere from twenty five to twenty eight feet."

" _Twenty eight feet_?" Ray finds that pretty hard to believe - or even picture. A reptile as long as a two-story house was tall? Longer, even, if it was a shitty house? That was... pretty terrifying. "That's gotta be a joke, Fraser."

"Well the records vary, but they generally agree that some adult animals can and do reach twenty five feet in length in extreme cases."

"That seems pretty extreme, I agree," Ray says, with some exasperation in the face of Fraser's calm. "How the hell would one get into a sewer in Chicago if it's a _saltwater_ crocodile?"

Fraser doesn't seem to have an explanation for that, and from the back seat, Diefenbaker gives an audible yawn. There's a long moment of silence while Ray drives, and he remembers he's heading for the interstate instead of his usual patrol route, changing lanes at the last second after a quick check to make sure no one's behind him.

"The bigger problem is that crocodiles don't shed their entire skins at once," Fraser explains, lifting a hand to rub his eyebrow in that way he has that makes Ray grin because he knows it's Fraser's tell for just about everything. In this case it's his 'I-have-no-possible-answer-for-that' tell.

Ray lets that sit, and feels a sinking sensation that this is not going to just be an easy open-shut issue of some idiots having a laugh at the police station with a rubber pool toy or something. If this isn't a joke, he has no idea what he's even going to do about it. Investigate a case of alligator murder? Animal cruelty maybe?

"Maybe it's just a fake after all," Ray wishes, aloud. Fraser agrees with one of his soft 'mm' noises that could indicate any number of Fraser-sentiments.

It's going to be a long ride. Ray squelches the cv radio, turning the volume all the way down, and kicking on the stereo until he finds a station playing old rock. Fraser makes a disapproving face, and fusses with the volume. Fraser's about the only one Ray will let do that, he thinks, and he doesn't complain so long as he can still hear the music. They're both thinking about how strange this case could be, he can tell.

-

The argument with Sam is the same one it always is. Sam is just the sort of person that results from being protected as a child, and while Dean knows whose fault that is - just like he knows however many other things he reminds himself of when he tries to fall asleep - he wishes Sam would at least _listen_ to him sometimes.

Sam is his biggest success. He's also the culmination of the worst mistakes Dean has ever made. Dean hates that he can't fix it, and hates even more that he cant protect what he's made. He hates _himself_ for having to _try._

"What's the word, Sam?" Dean asks, as if he'd been sleeping - as if that time might have improved his mood as much as locking himself in his car and blasting the noise out of his head with the volume knob turned up until it didn't turn anymore. "Got a job for us?"

When he rolls over, Sam is stewing in it. Sam is doing his best 'stewing in it' face, all his features scrunched up, especially around his mouth, and he's leaning back from his open laptop to look unblinkingly at Dean's back. Dean pretends not to notice, and Sam animates at last, reaching for the laptop and pulling it back to him across the tabletop as if he'd been using it the whole time.

"Not much. " He covers his preoccupation with the lame excuse that there weren't many leads, but it means he's willing to keep up the game they play where they pretend it's okay. "In... Chicago, the police pulled a thirty foot crocodile skin from the sewers."

"You mean like a shed skin? Like a snake?" Dean didn't know crocodiles did that. He'd never really thought about it. A different point about the statement struck him just as wrong as he sat up rubbing his eyes as a bracing motion. He presses until colors kaleidoscope behind his eyelids, unrelenting until he can also play the 'it's okay' game. It's how he survives. Winchesters were born to play it. "Did you say _thirty_ feet?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "If it's real it'll be the longest ever on record." He clicks a few keys. "There's more - I don't think crocodiles shed more than just a scale or two at a time."

"Don't live in the sewer, either, Sammy."

"Guess I'll check for other signs of activity-"

"Probably there'd be some disappearances. Thing has to get hungry, right?" Dean yawns, and scrubs his hands into his eyes, trying to wake up a little further. He'd like to investigate something he'd never seen before, sure. It was harder, but the work was more satisfying. Plus, Dean's had enough of demons lately. Really, more than one was _enough_ , anyway, but ever since the whole hell thing, it was all demons all the time it seemed like.

The keys click from Sammy's direction, as he accesses the information through whatever computer magic it was that he worked with Google.

"So what do you think, Sammy?" Dean asks, picking up his boots - he'd only been taking a nap, so he is still dressed. If he was honest with himself, these days he rarely bothered to strip down when he sleeps - either from exhaustion or knowing how short his rest was likely to be.

"Could be anything, Dean. I mean they only found the skin." Sam taps a few keys, skimming the article for details.

"Says the case was investigated by a detective Raymond Vecchio." Sam reads off his laptop screen. "Who is quoted as saying 'whoever set this up has got to be some crazy sicko'."

"Sounds like it was a prank." Dean yawns. Might have even been interesting, crocodiles in the sewer.

"Maybe," Sam agrees reluctantly, "but that's kind of a weird prank."

"People are _weird_ in Illinois, Sammy."

"We could head that direction and check it out anyway," Sam says, somewhat irritably, "We aren't doing anything else."

"Yeah, I guess you have a point," Dean agrees, equally reluctant. Driving will be better than trying to sleep with a pissed Sam in the room glaring at his back.

-

"I'm still not sure there's something for a detective to even _do_ here-" Ray is protesting, though he has his notebook and pen out, and is dutifully taking down what the two local-yokels are saying. He's not sure if he's glad the news crew cleared out so fast when he asked them to or not. Seemed like they were done poking the damn thing by the time he got there, anyway.

"What if'n there's a whole nest of 'em or somethin?" Yokel A is carrying a shotgun pointed at the ground, tucked up under one arm. Which explains why they were out in this utterly abandoned area by a drainage culvert. Bird hunting. Just two guys, lord only knew how many beers, guns, a dog, and shooting whatever flew up out of the grass. Practically a national past-time.

"What the hell were you doing in the sewer in the first place?" Ray asks. He doesn't get an answer.

"It's highly unlikely that an animal this large would find a suitable mate in this area," Fraser begins, "owing partially to the unsuitability of the locale for effectively raising offspring and the lack of proximity to saltwater."

"Yeah," Ray agrees, and decides to cut Fraser off with his own newfound knowledge "That and crocodiles don't melt their whole skin off at once."

"I believe you mean 'moult', Ray."

"That's what I said. Melt."

Fraser lets that stand without further comment.

"The newslady thought they did," explains Hap-short-for-Happy, like the newslady - _anchor_ , Ray corrects himself - knew everything. Ray's opening his mouth to explain how much exactly he thinks the news-anchor-lady knows when Fraser steps in diplomatically.

"It's a common misconception that because snakes shed their skins whole that all reptiles do," he begins in his best Ranger-Dan voice. Ray doesn't have the heart or stomach to interrupt, so he lets Fraser give his nature lesson while he goes off to do actual investigative-type-things.

The thing is stretched out on the ground by the culvert. On the news, Hekyll & Jekyll had said they'd just found it washed up against the broken grating. It looks like hell, and smells worse, but aside from a few rips, he can make out four limbs, a neck and parts of the head and a long, tapering tail. It is thick, but still somewhat see-through. He's pretty sure that this couldn't have happened naturally. So that left - what, then?

Maybe something ate all the insides, but that seemed odd. Ray shifts the skin, lifting a flap to try and decide if the tear was natural or indicated some injury to the animal. With a sickening tearing sensation, like wet cardboard coming apart, it separates in his hands. _Okay_ , he thinks, _nothing can get grosser than that._

He drops the newly separated chunk of skin next to the rest of the remains with a groan. He can hear that Fraser and the Yokels are still talking without having to look up and see what Fraser is doing. Scrubbing the slime off his hands and onto his jeans, he hears that Fraser is just finishing his standard 'why's a Mountie in Illinois' explanation, and Ray will even risk the sight of him possibly licking something dead that came out of the sewer to get his opinion on this.

Dead _people_ Ray was a pro at. Dead alligators, not so much.

"Frayz," he says to attract Fraser's attention away from his polite question fielding.

"I believe my partner needs me, if you would be so kind as to excuse me a moment," Fraser tips his hat politely as he takes leave of the two yokels, who seem bewildered and uncertain about what has just happened to them. Fraser talking could be like that sometimes, Ray's felt the effects himself.

Fraser approaches and looks down at the skin, making a speculative noise as he crouches and begins to examine it with obvious interest - and an obvious lack of the same reserve about touching slimy shit that Ray has. He picks up the piece that Ray had discarded and examines it,and Ray starts to feel queasy just watching it slide through his fingers.

"It appears to be in a state of advanced decomposition," Fraser says, exploring the texture carefully and then lifting the piece toward his face and sniffing it efficiently. Ray makes a face, but at least Fraser doesn't seem intent to taste the damn thing.

"Can you even smell anything but sewer?" Ray asks, and Fraser arches his brows a little, then shrugs by way of answer.

"Decomposition, Ray."

"I guess we better scrape it up and get it back to the lab. I don't even know if I got an evidence bag big enough for this thing," Ray says, when it's pretty obvious to him that Fraser's going to need some processing time before he comes up with any solid conclusions. "You ever seen anything like this?"

"Personally? No, I would have to say not - but I'm sure there is some kind of logical explanation," Fraser answers, reaching out to absently push his hand into the fur on Diefenbaker's neck. The wolf takes one experimental sniff of the carcass - if you could even call it that - and then sneezes violently and wanders off to a less fragrant area. Ray agrees.

"Let me go see if I can't find something in the cruiser to transport it in," Ray says, without much enthusiasm. Fraser nods, and begins to very carefully fold the skin back onto itself so it might fit into a smaller space. Ray's going to be glad when he's done touching it forever, he thinks, and goes to root around in the evidence collection kit.

-

 _Driving_ with a pissed off Sam glaring at the side of his head is almost as bad, Dean discovers. He doesn't even know why his brother won't let the whole damn thing just drop. Yes, _Apocalypse bad_. Dean gets it. Who wouldn't?

But it didn't mean they knew any better how to stop it, or that it was something they could look up on the internet or in the library like werewolf lore or shtriga myths or all the other stuff that was recounted from historical encounters. No one had ever stopped an apocalypse before to Dean's knowledge, so it wasn't like there was some magical guidebook out there, even in legend.

"Sam, will you just... take some deep breaths or do some power breathing or _something_ ," Dean finally explodes, after his brother protests the fourth time he shoves Back in Black on 8-track into the stereo. The loud music is all that's letting Dean ignore the completely hostile attitude brewing in the confines of the Impala, all originating from the blackest expression he thinks he's ever seen on his brother's face.

"You think deep breaths are going to really help, Dean?" Sam demands with his usual level of self-righteous incredulity. He's been working himself up to this for hours, the whole drive really, and Dean doesn't even really have the energy to be pissed that Sam just has no idea how to drop things.

"Yeah, actually," Dean says, "Because if you glare a hole in my head before we even get to Illinois, I'm not sure we can convince Cas to put me back together again."

"We're facing the _apocalypse_ here, Dean. Don't you think we could be doing something better with our time?"

"You're the one who brought it up," Dean points out, and Sam momentarily loses steam in his argument, grinding to a halt.

"I just don't know what we're trying to accomplish with things like this," he settles with at last, huffing out a breath like he was fifteen years younger again."

Except what Sam is arguing about isn't what they're doing with their time or even the apocalypse at all. It's taken Dean years and a trip to the afterlife to realize that half of what Sam argues about isn't whatever subject he's got crammed sideways in his craw at any given moment.

It's always him trying to find a way to argue himself out of the lifestyle somehow. Either through working up enough of a moral divide between them that he could storm off or through convincing himself, through Dean, that he didn't want to do it. It's the same argument Sam used to have with their dad.

Why the arguments have gotten worse, lately, Dean's pretty sure is because he's no longer playing along. Sam hasn't' changed the rules in so long that Dean's playing them against him. Dean's sick of playing at all, to be honest. Sam can't leave because the life won't let anyone leave just as much as because he had a giant bleeding heart that went out to orphans and puppies and those clowns that visited sick kids in hospitals.

"Sam, if you got a better idea," Dean warns his brother, tone rising in irritation as Sam turns down the volume again. "Out with it. Otherwise you better quit looking at me like that before I give you a reason to."

Sam's reply is cut off by the ringing of Dean's cell phone. Dean grins broadly, suddenly convinced that there is such a thing as divine providence and that it's on his side. He fishes in his pocket for the cell phone, allowing himself to look extremely smug while Sam just sits there pissed.

"Dean," A voice hits his ear the instant he flips the phone open, and there's no mistaking the gravelly too-serious tone. Dean almost takes back the whole victory celebration he'd had - if Castiel was calling it meant they'd probably be changing course. "Where are you?"

"Lower Illinois somewhere, headed to Chicago."

"Good. There's something there I want you to check out," Castiel says, surprising Dean.

"It's not a record length alligator skin by any chance, is it?" he asks, with a sidelong glance at Sam. His brother suddenly tunes into the conversation, sitting up and looking like he has about a thousand questions to ask Cas via Dean.

"It's not an alligator," Castiel says, without any further explanation. "When you get there, call me. I'll meet you at your hotel."

The line clicks, and the call terminates. Dean loves having the world's most socially inept angel as a friend sometimes, but knows better than to try to call back and pry any other information out of him until they've done as he asked.

"He wants us to look into this?" Sam asks, incredulous. He looks like he might be thinking that it was something Dean was doing just to put him on, except Dean has nothing to gain by pretending Cas told them to go stare at sewers to see if 'gators came out.

"That's what the bird-man says, Sam," Dean answers, and he can't help but feeling a little bit like he's getting to say 'I-told-you-so', except Dean _hadn't_ told him so. "He also says it's not an alligator."

"Yeah, Dean. It's a crocodile."


	2. Chapter 2

He's got his head shoved way under the pillow, willing himself to stop thinking so he can sleep. It's mostly a useless effort, as his mind chases away on a thousand short, pointless trails of thought, lurching in a new direction every time he tries to shut them down. Ray's had about a thousand useless thoughts just today alone, ranging on subjects from life to philosophy, but mostly about how even when he wasn't living his own life anymore, he still couldn't seem to sleep. He bets _Vecchio_ sleeps.

 

"Yup, time to get up," he tells the turtle, and throws back the covers. "Therapy time."

 

Finally, frustrated, Ray gets up. He goes to the kitchen and swings open the freezer door, looking at the bottles arrayed inside it. It's not a question of if he's going to have some at this point, but more if he's going to need a big glass or a little one. He doesn't think about it, pulling down a tumbler from the cabinet and forcing his mind blank except for the actions his hands are enacting.

 

He's just tipping the bottle when there's a knock on his door. He stops, looks over at the time - who knocked at this hour? Maybe there was some trouble. Setting the bottle down on the counter next to the cup, he heads for the front door to his apartment, careful not to jam his foot against the sofa leg where it sticks out in back.

 

A glance through the peephole in the door reveals a familiar blaze of red and gold braid. Fraser, standing too close to the door again. Ray's tired mind can't really wrap around why Fraser would be at his door at this hour of the morning. He does know that the appropriate thing to do is to open the door for his friend, so he undoes the chain and swings the door open.

 

"Hey, Fraser," he starts, and then has no idea what to say next. Possibilities enter his mind like 'why so late' or 'is there trouble', and then lastly, distressingly, _I was just up thinking about Stella._

 

"Good morning, Ray," Fraser says, technically correct, as always.

 

Fraser is just staring at him, quietly, waiting. Ray's nerve suddenly plunges off the cliff it's been wavering along like a drunk man on bicycle, just as he realizes exactly how badly he thinks he _needs_ someone to talk to, someone to just let go of all these things he never talks about and keeps bottled up inside himself. Self-revulsion wells up in him just as quickly.

 

Ray won't ever let himself need anything again - oh no, he knows right where that road goes. It climbs right up his spine and into the back of his throat so bad he has to knock back an antacid now because when he thinks about Stella, his stomach clenches up.

 

About how it is alone in bed, and how much you can hate someone and just want to crawl right back to them anyway because you know its _yourself_ you should hate. Ray _does,_ he does so much it spills over, almost. He can't do anything, won't even try anymore - Stella's made it _so clear_ what she wants in all her little hints.

 

Nothing she ever says she wants spells R-A-Y; in fact. She wants him as far away as possible. He wishes everything wasn't so broke, wishes he knew what to un-break about himself to make all of her problems not leap to his mind when he thinks about life - about why things ended.

 

It was civil, it was so fucking _civil_ and of course it was because Stella was a lawyer. Stella _ate_ civil for breakfast, lunch and dinner, oozed it from her pores instead of normal human-being pheromones. She wasn't always like that. Ray remembers how she used to be wild, then remembers again how quickly satiation could turn into frustration. Kids would mess up her career or Ray might mess up her lipstick, because he was such an _embarrassment_ \- you could clean him up but not take him out because he just stank like cop. Like someone who wished that the law _working_ would depend less on money.

 

He stood out at lawyer parties. Stella went to a ton of those, but absolutely _zero_ cop parties. Eventually he stopped going to _either._

 

Ray hasn't slept a full night in longer than he dares think about. In a 'people go crazy from not sleeping right this long' amount of time. He thinks that's the way it works, anyway - or he'd heard that from people. He feels it all gather slowly under his eyes and beneath his sternum, weights pulling him down at both points. He never gives in to them - he knows if he did he would just be laying on the floor all the time, wallowing in guilt. That's too pathetic, even for him. He just distracts himself by dancing or cooking or whatever comes to hand. The harder he pretends to be okay, the more everyone seems to think he's fine.

 

Fraser is still looking at him, trying not to look to curious at the world that Ray has beyond the doorway where he's standing. Ray's suddenly conscious of how he's half-dressed and wearing only lounge pants while Fraser stands outside his apartment.

 

"I'm sorry, Ray," Fraser says, after the silence, "I didn't mean to wake you, I just thought you might want to know the results of the test."

 

"You ever hear of the phone?" Ray says, snapping out of his trance, when he senses that Fraser is about to leave awkwardly and wander off possibly feeling sorry that he ever came. Ray doesn't want to _need_ the guy, not exactly, but he doesn't want to scare him off, either. Possibly the best thing that's happened to Ray out of this whole crazy undercover-as-Vecchio thing has been the fact that he fell right into what's possibly the best friendship he ever had. Like he'd inherited this... garden or something, and all he had to do was take care of it now that it'd been all planted and grown.

 

In a lot of other situations, Ray might hate getting that kind of responsibility dumped into his lap. Fraser made it easy, though. He was weird as hell, and put way too many things into his mouth, but he's a good guy. Vecchio had at least had the good sense to be friends with a good guy, whatever other impression Ray kept getting of him from sitting at his desk and hearing the things that were thrown his way with intent for Vecchio.

 

"I did call, Ray," Fraser is saying. "Several times, but there was no answer and I thought perhaps that there might be some trouble-"

 

Of course, Ray thinks, lifting his hand to his head, he'd left the phone off the hook, after Stella's call.

 

"Yeah, It's uh, it's off the hook, sorry Frayz," Ray says, and swings the door open to admit both Mountie and Wolf into his humble abode. It's dark inside, the only light coming from the kitchen since he hadn't bothered to turn any others on. "I didn't mean to worry you, I was just tired and I figured I should-oughta get some real sleep."

 

He's not sure why the lies come so easily, but they do. He just naturally avoids talking about Stella. Maybe he's worried that once he opens the gates, just all this venom will start pouring out and it'll feel better than he wants it to. He knows, naturally he knows, that not everything that went wrong was Stella's fault. Ray's got his share of problems too. But he's so injured at the moment that he just wants to open his mouth and say horrible things he doesn't even _mean_ about Stella, just to get all the bottled up words inside him out.

 

"I understand, Ray," Fraser says, standing just inside the door awkwardly with his hat off and in his hands. He keeps his shoulders back, professional. Diefenbaker is sniffing around the floor like he might be hoping to find some crumbs around or something. Or maybe he's just taking in the way Ray's apartment smells - or he smells the Turtle, possibly. "Sleep is an important function for the restoration of the mind and body. In Inuvik, it can often be difficult to sleep in the summer months, especially with the elongated days. It requires a strict adherence to a careful schedule to train your body to sleep in conditions where it never gets dark, actually."

 

"Fraser," Ray says, feeling tired. It's sitting right under his eyes, and hanging on his limbs, and the last thing he wants is Eskimo stories right now. He leans against the back of his couch, and he knows he should invite Fraser to relax, and sit down, but he's just too exhausted to play the 'stop being awkward, Fraser' game, and just lets the guy stand there. Fraser almost seems more comfortable that way, anyway. "The results?"

 

"Ah. Yes, of course, Ray." Fraser says, cutting his story short. "The DNA shares traits with the Australian saltwater crocodile, but it seems the sample was strongly contaminated with human DNA as well. It was impossible to make an exact match, but the scientists are pretty confident with their findings."

 

"Well shit, Fraser, we already _knew_ it was an alligator." Ray says, feeling even more tired than he had before.

 

"Crocodile," Fraser says, and it takes Ray a moment to realize that he's being corrected on semantics. By then it's too late to argue that it doesn't matter, and so he drops it, and tries to figure out instead why Fraser is still standing with his hat off just inside his doorway, with a wolf parked practically on his feet.

 

"You didn't walk all the way over here just to tell me that, did you?" Ray asks, somewhat surprised. "I mean, yeah, I wanted to know, but this couldn't wait until work?"

 

"Technically I took the bus for part of the way, there's a line that allows pets that takes us close enough to walk here without too much effort," Fraser says, and then looks up sharply as Ray straightens up and beckons him and the wolf deeper into the apartment. He does notice when Fraser leaves the second question unanswered, but decides he doesn't care too much after all. Fraser had probably been worried, since he'd been trying to call.

 

Friends check up on friends, he thinks, and so maybe he hadn't been looking for it exactly, and he doesn't quite want to spill all his guts or anything, but he can sit and talk to Fraser for a while. Because really what did they know about each other that wasn't on paper or part of pretending that Ray was some other guy, also named Ray?

 

"Sit," Ray orders the pair of them, indicating the couch. Amusingly, Diefenbaker takes the order first, hopping up on one of the cushions and curling up to get comfortable like he might be there a while.

 

"I wouldn't want to be any kind of inconvenience, Ray," Fraser begins, before Ray cuts him off.

 

"Sit, you're making _me_ feel antsy."

 

"Ah, actually Diefenbaker and I should really be going," Fraser says, tucking his hat back onto his head with a finality that makes Ray almost feel a little dizzy.

 

Fraser had just gotten here, and now he was going again? Why had he come at such a late hour if he was just going to run out the door again that fast? Ray can't organize his thoughts into anything like coherency, so he winds up just following Fraser toward the door while Diefenbaker grouches his way back off the couch with an audible whine of protest.

 

"You sure?" Ray finds himself asking, and when Fraser meets his eyes to nod, there's something strange there. But Ray doesn't have any time to guess at it, because the door's already closing behind Fraser, and it's only belatedly that Ray realizes that Fraser had bid him goodnight on the way out.

 

"Yeah, good night to you too, Frayz," Ray says, to the closed door.

-

 

The first time Dean and Cas had to have 'the talk', it was because Cas had just popped right into existence within the five most convenient feet from him. Sometimes, he still forgets and does it anyway, like now.

 

Castiel doesn't seem more than the smallest bit surprised at the spray from the shower - but Dean's startled - and he might admit _girlish_ yelp, because _come on_ no one expects angels in their shower not even when they signed up for the whole God vs. the apocalypse thing, Dean's yelp confuses Castiel. He just stands there, alternately being wet and not wet, as if just as soon as his clothes sticking to him became a great big, messy bother, he willed them dry again.

 

He asks his question with his expression rather than aloud, head canted, without bothering to do the smart thing if he wanted to stay dry, which was to _get out of the shower_. Dean gulps air, waiting for his heartbeat to slow to within the speed limit.

 

"Cas," he says, firmly, glad he hadn't slipped and broken his neck when he'd jumped. _Here lies Dean Winchester, vampire slayer, demon hunter, fell to his death in the shower..._

 

Castiel seems to learn some lessons of humanity more soundly than others, because he at least has the sense to look scolded by the tone - though he's obviously not certain _why_ he should be. Admonished Castiel is subtle. Even though he doesn't move, his presence seems to shift away a little. His attention drifts downward instead of sidelong. Dean almost feels bad about it, before he remembers that he's _naked_ , in the _shower_ , and Castiel is not even just in the room with him, but standing cozily on this side of the curtain. Not even Cas' angelic powers of social awkwardness make that okay.

 

"Okay." Dean says, trying not to be upset. "Okay, _outside_ the shower curtain, Cas. Not in it, _outside._ "

 

By the second repetition, Castiel has complied with Dean's wishes.

 

Feeling strangely violated in a way that Dean can't even begin to explain, he forces himself to take some deep breaths and reaches out of the shower curtain to yank the towel off the bar.

 

"What?" he asks at last, clutching the towel tight around his midsection. "Don't you have personal space in the great blue yonder?"

 

"It was just a convenient place to talk to you," Castiel explains, without any hint of emotion. He does, at least, have the good sense to be looking vaguely in the direction of the sink when Dean glares at him from around the shower curtain before he gets out.

 

"What if I was going to the bathroom or something?"

 

"You weren't."

 

The notion that Castiel might have checked up on him in some invisible giant angel form before he popped in - might even have done it before at times when Dean never even knew, is more than a little mortifying. Dean decides against getting into it, If he doesn't know for certain that it happens, he can pretend that it doesn't.

 

"What did you need to talk about, Cas?"

 

"The job in Illinois. The one you're on the way to, I was going to ask you to look into it."

 

"Why?" Dean asks, still just as perplexed by Castiel's interest in what was probably a hoax. Even if it wasn't, how supernatural could a crocodile _be_ anyway? "Are giant reptiles a sign of the apocalypse?"

 

"No, but I have my suspicions that it isn't a crocodile," Castiel says. "I'm not certain, and there were too many people around the remains for me to go and look on my own. So I want you to get to them and keep me informed."

 

Dean makes a face, then shrugs, and turns around to smear toothpaste on his brush. He might be able to pretend that having discussions with angels in his bathroom is less weird that way.

 

"Okay, so go check out the scene, and let you know what we find. When did we become holy errand boys again?" Dean asks, but he gets no response, and he spits a mouthful of toothpaste lather into the sink before continuing. "So if it's not a crocodile, what do you think we're going to find? You have to have some idea."

 

When Dean gets no answer, he looks around to confront Castiel, only to find that he's already gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Ray is wishing he had more coffee and is staring blankly at his field report, trying to figure out how to write 'alligator skin melted into goop a day after we pulled it from the scene' in a way that seems field report appropriate. He has almost settled on _material evidence disintegrated within forty eight hours of acquisition,_ and is feeling ridiculously pretentious for it. Fraser would know exactly how to phrase this so it doesn't sound crazy, he's pretty sure. Then again, Fraser always knows what to say to the extent that sometimes Ray is pretty sure he must stand at home and explain things to _himself_ just because he can't help it.

 

Theoretically, when Fraser is at home, he could be talking to Diefenbaker, but everyone knew that Dief was deaf. Even if he wasn't, Ray's sure the wolf would be a pretty bad listener.

 

"Are you detective Raymond Vecchio?" A gruff voice interrupts his thoughts, cluing Ray in to the fact that he must have been way off in Kowalski-land instead of writing his report, since when he looks up there are two suits practically on top of his desk. One taller with a decidedly non-regulation haircut that reminds Ray of that new fourteen year old singer kid he couldn't get away from in department stores and the supermarket. One a little bit shorter, more business than the other as far as personal grooming. Striped ties, Ray notices, stupidly. He's never seen a Feeb with a non-solid tie. Different colors, even. These guys must be from some podunk branch that wasn't too strict about dress regs.

 

"Detective?" Blue-With-Silver-Diagonals asks again, reaching for his pocket to show his badge. Like Ray would even need to see it with these two monkeys just standing there in the full getup looking as serious as head trauma.

 

"Yeah, that's me. Vecchio," Ray answers, wondering if Vecchio had been in some kind of trouble. That'd be the last thing he needed, but at least it might be a little more interesting than random melting crocodile skins.

 

"I'm agent Jones, this is agent Greenwood,' Red-with-blue diagonals - or, Ray guesses, 'Agent Jones', says. "From the FBI. We'd like to discuss one of your cases with you."

 

Ray is struck by the combination of names, and it takes him a moment to realize where they're familiar from. "Like Foreigner?"

 

Jones looks downright surprised at the mention, and Greenwood's attention shifts suddenly away, like he's embarrassed to even be seen with his partner. Ray smirks a little, and glances at the badges as they're shown.

 

"Yeah, I guess it is like that," Jones says, trying to play things off nonchalantly, "I'd never thought of it before."

 

Ray knows that's bullshit, but he can see that it might be one of those partner jokes that kept getting brought up because people might think it was witty to constantly point it out. He lets it drop with a grin.

 

"So what can I do for you?" he asks, sitting up and pushing all the paperwork into a vaguely neat stack, glad to get away from it for a while even if it did mean talking to the FBI.

 

"We're here about the Saltwater Crocodile-" Jones begins, before Ray's brain practically flatlines its way out of the conversation. What the hell did the _FBI_ care about that stupid crocodile?

 

"Why?" Ray manages, and this is no small feat, to keep hostile disbelief out of his tone. He could see if maybe Parks & Recreation or the Fish & Game administration or something wanted to look into it, but the _FBI_?

 

"We're investigating the smuggling of endangered species into the country," Greenwood supplies, shrugging his shoulders like he knows its a shit job, but those were the breaks when you were a public servant. "The case may not be related but it's pretty unusual."

 

"You're telling me," Ray agrees, not sure why anyone would want to smuggle a giant alligator or whatever all the way from Australia. He did once kick a door into a guy's house down to come face to face with a full grown pet leopard - not the best experience of his life. "I'm not sure how much good it'll do you guys, since there isn't much left, but you'll probably want to talk to my partner about it. He's the expert."

 

"Partner?" Jones asks, glancing around like he's trying to identify who it is in the room.

 

"I gotta call him," Ray says, picking up the phone on his desk and punching in the numbers for the consulate.

 

"What is he an expert _in_ exactly?" Greenwood pipes up, as the phone starts to ring through.

 

"Everything," Ray admits, waiting for the line to connect.

 

-

 

Whatever Dean had expected when Vecchio mentioned having a partner, it hadn't been _this._ The man that enters the interview room is dressed head to toe, no shit, like Dudley Do-Right. Ask any random person on the street to picture a Mountie, and they'd be ninety percent accurate to this . He is tall, like _logger_ tall. His uniform, which he wears like it is the most natural thing in the world to wear in downtown Chicago, was red and not a line of it out of place. Hat and all. Dean notices he has no gun.

 

A large, white - was it a dog? It had to be a dog, right? - follows him , and sits quietly at his side when he stops.

 

"Agents Jones and Greenwood, this is Constable Fraser," Vecchio says, and he looks like he's enjoying saying it.

 

"Is this some kind of joke?" Sam asks, moving to shake Constable Fraser's hand anyway. Dean finds himself compelled to take the same action, the guy just looks so genuine and honest when he reaches forward.

 

"There is nothing humorous about upholding the law, gentlemen." Fraser answers - and he seems to really mean it, somehow. It's ridiculous. The guy _looks_ ridiculous, but still there's something about him that makes Dean realize that the guy's for real.

 

"Fraser's with the local Canadian consolation," Vecchio explains, only partially helpful.

 

"I believe you mean consulate, Ray," Fraser corrects gently - like someone used to this sort of mistake. "I assist detective Vecchio on some of his more unusual cases. I find my expertise can be of some assistance in matters like this."

 

"I'm sorry," Dean says, because his mind just is stuck on this one point and refuses to start back up again until he gets past it, "It's just - are you a _Mountie_? In Chicago?"

 

"Well, Chicago is relatively proximate to the Canadian-American border. I first came to Chicago on the trail of my father's killers," Fraser begins what is clearly a long and much-simplified story.

 

"And for some reason he decided to hang around at the consulate," Vecchio stems the tide of the conversation carefully, supplying his version of a story heard too often. Dean isn't sure if he should be grateful.

 

-

 

"Well, contrary to popular belief, the sewer is not an ideal habitat for a young crocodile. They actually have an immune system similar to our own , and crocodiles are just as susceptible to bacteria - more so in fact to certain strains found in human waste - and so it's highly unlikely that a juvenile would survive more than a few days, let alone to adulthood." Fraser takes a breath. "Also, the size alone is very unlikely without adequate nutrition - and very few things survive in such a septic environment. Such an individual is more likely to be stunted than-"

 

"Fraser."

 

"Yes, Ray?"

 

"Enough with the biology lesson."

 

"Understood."

 

"So was it a fake skin or what?" Sam tries valiantly to steer the topic back on track.

 

"Naw, it was real somehow. Had DNA and everything, though the sample we tested was contaminated. The experts say maybe it was some kind of Australian saltwater alligator."

 

"Crocodile-"Fraser starts to correct his partner.

 

"Crocodile. Right. Whichever. Anyway, the sample came back a partial match to human and otherwise unidentifiable."

 

"That's... strange, right?" Sam asks.

 

"Not really. The yahoos that found the thing handled it all over."

 

"And that would cause that kind of mixed DNA reading?"

 

"Yeah, it might - don't they teach you this stuff in the FBI?"

 

"Been a while since our last DNA refresher course." Dean adds casually, shrugging his shoulders and trying to imply he never paid much attention. "Just making sure our facts are straight."

 

"Have local zoos reported any missing crocodiles?" Sam steps back in to keep the conversation from sticking.

 

"Naw, but it could be someone's escaped illegal pet. We see all kinds of crazies who keep dangerous animals outside the city."

 

"But you said crocodiles can't survive in the sewers."

 

"We only found the skin in there - it could just be some practical joke."

 

"As crocodiles don't actually shed their entire skins, it seems likely that this is some kind of unfortunate taxidermy accident." Fraser says, springing his sudden surprise theory on Ray without any warning.

 

" _Taxidermy_ accident?" Ray asks, turning a disbelieving look on the Mountie.

 

"Certainly. It's possible that someone shot a prize length crocodile and then had the remains shipped back frozen - through the proper channels of course - so that it could be mounted and stuffed for display."

 

"Oh here it comes," Ray mutters, as Fraser continues undeterred.

 

"And in the course of his preparations - say after he had carefully skinned the animal - some accident occurred and the hide was washed into the sewer system. Now the septic conditions and native bacteria could account for the poor condition and semi-preservation of the skin as it was found."

 

"Of _course_ it could."

 

"And removing it from that, well, chemical stew to put it delicately-"

 

"Oh, _delicately._ "

 

"-could account for the rapid deterioration it's undergone since." Fraser concludes, though rubbing at one eyebrow.

 

Sam looks at Dean, Dean at Sam.

 

"What my partner means, in brief is ' _whoops!_ someone tossed an alligator hand bag-"

 

"Crocodile, Ray."

 

"Have you not talked enough already?"

 

Fraser opens his mouth. Then closes it again, without saying anything further.

 

"'Whoops! Someone tossed a _crocodile_ handbag -" A look at Fraser. "Into the sewer, where nasty things happened to it, which is why our morgue smells like rotting _crocodile,_ and we got no idea where this thing came from."

 

Sam looks sheepishly down and takes a few notes.

 

"So what are the chances of getting a second DNA test done - so we can identify the species?" Sam asks.

 

"Okay, A - it's rotting, so ew and good luck. Mort doesn't want to touch that thing again with a 10 foot pole-"

 

"Mort?" Dean asks.

 

"Our Mortician," Fraser answers, helpfully, with further information that may either identify the particular Mort the Mortician in question, or just be useless trivia. "Likes opera."

 

"And B-" Ray talks over both of them, raising his voice to regain everyone's attention. "The city ain't going to front the cost for another freak-show test, there's too many real people getting murdered."

 

"Our forensics department _is_ a bit backlogged, I'm afraid." Fraser agrees.

 

"Your mortician is named _Mort_?" Dean, belatedly.

 

"Ironic, yes. But fitting." Fraser states.

 

"Yeah, so what?" Ray says at the same time.

 

Dean shrugs and does his best 'just curious' expression. Ray is glancing at his partner as if waiting for something to come out of Fraser's mouth so he could attempt to stem the tide of irrelevant and only vaguely useful information . Fraser only stares politely back, oblivious that anything is expected of him.

 

"We'd like to examine the, uh, remains." Sam broke in, trying to stem the next bout of weird-cop, weird-cop.

 

"City morgue's downstairs, c'mon." Ray says, sounding resigned to the unpleasantness, but leading the way.

-

 

 

"You really want to see it? I was going to pour it out this afternoon." Mort queries, gravely. He _looks_ like a 'Mort'.

 

"You mean _throw_ it out, right?" Detective Vecchio stuffs himself in by the filing cabinets, looking studiously through the bins of personal effects. Dean thinks he looks a little green, and remembers what it was like to have the luxury of squeamishness.

 

"Oh, no," Mort answers seriously, peering at Ray's back over his glasses, perplexed by the behavior. He gestures gracefully with a scalpel. "The remains have quite liquefied. - I was considering cremation but the smell is not quite as bad as an enclosed human decomposition..."

 

"The smell is _pretty bad,_ Mort."

 

"So you're saying there aren't any remains?" Sam prompts.

 

"Drawer twenty five," Mort answers simply. "See for yourself."

 

Ray, sharply "No _licking_." pointing a finger at Fraser.

 

The contents of the drawer are enclosed in a sealed plastic container, like some kind of medical grade government-issue tupperware. It gives an ominous slosh as the slab is wheeled out on its casters.

 

Mort's description of 'liquefied' was adequate. A sickening yellow-green slime fills the container.

 

"Huh." Fraser says, in an interested tone. Mort nods in cryptic agreement.

 

"If you are wise at all you will _not_ open that," Ray says, warily, glancing over his shoulder anxiously as Sam pulls off the plastic clips securing the top.

 

The sudden increase in the room's vile smell is choking - a thick, fishy smell pours out as Sam reveals the contents within to be nothing more than a slimy, disgusting liquid.

 

"That was a _skin?_ " Sam asks, choking as he does it, sliding his gaze to Dean at the same time as his voice conveys his disbelief.

 

"It's decomposing at an advanced rate from exposure to the multitude of bacteria present in the sewer - that's where they found it, you know." Mort's tone is serious - he's attempting to be helpful. "That sort of environment specializes in decomposition - and as a body is mostly liquid, the skin especially - well, you can see the results."

 

Mort looks over his glasses at Sam apologetically.

 

"Yeah well, I can _smell_ the result too," Ray interjects. "Put the lid back on, willya?"

 

"There is no autopsy tape since there was no body I'm afraid. I do have some documentary photographs, if you would like to look at those."

 

"Uh, yeah," Sam says, snapping the lid back on though it's too late now to stem the smell off. It makes very little difference. Ray is pulling the neck of his shirt up over his nose when he turns around after the remains are safely shut into their drawer. "We'd better have a look at those."

 

Mort pushes aside the plate containing his lunch - or at least it looks like lunch, some kind of sandwich - and shuffles through the papers on his desk until he comes up with a manilla folder. On the front, in what Sam would guess is Detective Vecchio's handwriting, it says 'Giant Handbag'. The tab is neatly labeled with the case number and the date the photos were taken - which is the same date as the article appeared in the paper, Sam notes.

 

"It was decomposing quite rapidly even then - as you should be able to note from the photographs," Mort tells them.

 

The photos show the skin laid out on plastic sheeting on the morgue floor - obviously it would not have fit on a gurney.

 

With a tape measure extended next to it for size reference, Sam is easily able tot take in the magnitude of it. It stretches to within inches of the front of the morgue to the back, and the photos all appear to be of just portions except for one, which must have been taken standing on a ladder.

 

It doesn't look completely crocodilian, owing in part to the squishy look of its edges. Sam notes some tears in the hide as well that appear to be liquefying.

 

Passing the file to Dean, Sam has to admit he's never seen anything like it.

 

"About how long did it take to reach the state it's in now?" Sam asks.

 

Mort looks briefly thoughtful. "Not terribly long at all. It resisted all attempts I made to preserve it - even salt tested on a sample only sped the process. No, I would say it had reached the state you currently find it in within thirty hours. It was nearly unrecognizable when I returned for my morning shift the next day."

 

Sam makes a note, but he's not sure what the relevancy of the information is. Something is obviously strange, but none of the pieces add up.

 

"And the DNA tests said it was a crocodile?"

 

"It was mostly a match for crocodile - Australian Saltwater Crocodile - but it was a contaminated sample and difficult to test due to decomposition."


	4. Chapter 4

"So what'd you make of, you know, the Super Mountie guy?"

 

"Constable Fraser? He... seemed to at least know kind of what he was talking about. A little bit in denial, but maybe he had a point about it just being a crocodile."

 

"Come on, Sammy. Thirty foot crocodile skins don't just wash up in the sewer and then turn into green slime," Dean says, scraping his brains for any information he had that could be relevant. "Let's assume it's not a crocodile."

 

"Why?" Sam asks, exasperated. "What good is that going to do us? No one's disappeared, not even an unusual number of pets. Whatever it was probably couldn't survive losing it's entire skin. We have nothing to go on."

 

"Because Cas asked us to," Dean says, more sharply than he'd intended, but he is sick of Sam's attitude on this whole thing. "And because I can think of one other thing that sheds it's skin and it turns to goop afterwards, and it's no good for anybody."

 

Sam actually has to think a minute, which pisses Dean off because it means his mind had been more on fighting than actually doing his job. He at least shuts up while he thinks about it.

 

"You think it's a shape-shifter?"

 

"That was the first thing I thought of when I saw the remains, but we should probably look into other things it could be, too, Sam," Dean says, making a sharp gesture, wondering if they could please get to work at last or what. "That's our job, you know. To find out what it is, and you know, maybe if it's really a crocodile we won't find anything, but the whole situation is _weird,_ and that's kind of our _job_."

 

Sam sighs, throws up his hands in aggravated defeat, and moves for his laptop.

 

"Okay so we're thinking shape-shifter possibly, but we should look at other options," he admits, settling into work-mode. Dean waits until he's turned away to make a vaguely heavenward gesture that is distinctly thankful. He remembers when it was _Sam_ who would drive them to spend more time working. It's pretty sad that Dean's the one who seems to do most of that these days.

 

"Okay, um. Possibly some kind of throwback animal, like a dinosaur?" Dean says, the first thing off the top of his head. "Weren't prehistoric crocodiles bigger?"

 

"Yeah, but they were... _prehistoric._ "

 

"So are sharks and Coelacanths," Dean says, "and they're still around. Maybe there's an isolated population or something."

 

"In _Chicago_?"

 

"Yeah, okay. So maybe it's not a dinosaur. So maybe a skinwalker - though usually they're canines, but who knows, maybe they can turn into giant lizards," Dean says, and then he realizes what he's saying, and nearly has to slap himself in the face for his idiocy.

 

"What?" Sam asks. "You look like you just stuck a fork in a light socket."

 

"A giant lizard, Sam. Maybe it's, I don't know, a _dragon._ "

 

Sam looks skeptical, then considerate, his features screwing up together like they usually do when he's trying to totally throw an idea out via his own strange brand of Sam-logic. Dean watches silently, waiting to see if Sam actually has some kind of too-much-time-at-the-computer wisdom that could discredit his theory, and feels a distinct satisfaction when Sam's expression at last turns conceding.

 

"I'm not sure, but I suppose it could be," Sam acknowledges. "But don't dragons have, you know, wings?"

 

"Maybe that part doesn't shed. Didn't Dad say he'd come up against one once? Remember, Sam? You and me just thought he was bullshitting to cover for something he didn't want to tell us about? Maybe there's something in the book," Dean says, and starts going through his duffel bag for it. He hears Sam starting to type, too, and almost smiles to himself.

 

He's still flipping when Sam starts talking, scribbling notes on a yellow pad of paper as he does so, between clicks and taps on the keyboard.

 

"Okay, seems like there's dragon lore in almost every culture. It ranges pretty widely though - they could be benevolent, malevolent, some are associated with weather, other with higher powers," Sam says, and then shakes his head. "There's just _so much_ lore, and all of it is tangled up with the fact that dragons are still popular in literature and media. I mean it's going to be hard to sort out what could possibly be real and what is just Harry Potter."

 

"I guess we just try to find the parts that are consistent from tale to tale," Dean says, and sits down at the other side of the small table, flipping through the journal until he locates the entry he's looking for.

 

"Here it is... Dad says that in the sewer of New York he tracked a creature that he was pretty sure was a dragon. It says he found tracks that definitely resembled a reptile's. He says it seemed intelligent, and that it seemed to just be a step ahead of him," Dean reads, and then pauses to skim ahead, trying to sort out the useful stuff. "It says there had been several deaths in the area, but he couldn't link them to the animal in the sewer. Hang on, he did find a skin but it was in the process of decomposition and was unidentifiable."

 

"Well it sounds the same. What's it doing in a sewer, though? I thought dragons liked, you know... caves, gold treasure, flying around eating villages," Sam says, and pokes through a few references.

 

"I guess it depends on the dragon," Dean says, and an idea he likes strikes him, "So we should kill it, then we'll be actual dragonslayers, Sam. How cool is that?"

 

"We don't even know that it _is_ a dragon yet, Dean. But I'll do some research - I mean I've never even seen one before, let alone do I have any idea how to kill one."

 

"Well apparently they used to do it all the time with swords and spears and on horseback," Dean says, with a shrug. "How hard can it be? We have guns."

 

"Well, yeah if you believe the legend of St. George," Sam says, "But I always figured that was more like a... parable. I mean, St. George only slew it to convert the people of Silene to Christianity. Who's to say it wasn't just a metaphor. Plus, he had some kind of sacred sword - _Ascalon_.'

 

"Like Excalibur?"

 

"I don't know, maybe," Sam answers. "Looks like Beowulf was actually killed by a dragon. I can't exactly be easy if you became a hero just for doing it."

 

"So what do the legends say about killing them?" Dean asks, glancing back down at the journal. "Dad didn't say anything about what he brought."

 

"He probably brought a gun, like you suggested. I don't know, maybe it would work," Sam says, looking up from the computer before he turns it around, displaying several pictures depicting dragon slaying that looked old as hell.

 

"Seems like these guys all have sticks," Dean observes, reaching out to click through. Sam spins the laptop back around before he can touch it.

 

"Spears or lances, looks like they're quite common, but I'd want a little range, too," Sam says, and then shrugs. "I'll hit the library later and see if I can't reference the original legends as much as possible - there's probably some details in the text somewhere."

 

"Yeah, good idea. I'll... call Cas and let him know what we've found out, and see if he has anything to add. I'm not sure if this is what he was expecting, but it would have been nice to have a kind of heads-up," Dean says, but he's not really all that irritated. Dragons seemed... _cool_ somehow, like a break from the usual demons and ghosts.

 

"It's Castiel. When has he ever been forthcoming, exactly?" Sam says, with a shrug. He closes the laptop, and leans back, rubbing his eyes. "I'm going to take a shower and change into normal clothes, then I'll head to the library. Good luck with Clarence."

-

 

Ray curls up on the floor a lot when he needs to sleep now - it's not a bed, he doesn't wake up reaching for Stella - in fact he only sleeps more than a couple of hours when he's curled up with the points of his body sure against the hard wood floor, head pillowed on his arm. He can get two hours this way, before his fingers turn leaden from the weight of his head, and the pins and needles wake him up.

 

Ray can live like this. He has to. He can. He has this far. It's even getting easier now, when he's on his own. He'd told Stella, some part of him hoping that there was some part of _her_ that she would admit wanted him to stay. She'd turned to him coldly, and told him she was leaving anyway, he should do what he wanted - as if that wasn't the cruelest thing in the world to say to him. As if Stella didn't already know that that all he could ever want was to take everything wrong he'd ever said back and just have it all back. Have _her_ back.

 

Instead she put him out with words calculated to be kind, encouraging, each one shattering his insides into unrecognizable parts. He didn't look at them anymore, not if he could help it. She said she wanted him to fly, but _away_ , far away. He couldn't hate her for it. _There was nothing he couldn't hate_ himself _for._

 

Ray taught himself a lesson that day - if you shut up, you get to keep your hopes safe. Of course then it was too late, he'd opened up his big, giant mouth and stuffed his foot right into it. Helped his foot was propped right up by all his issues and insecurities, baggage helping him balance while he shoved it right down his throat. What could he do but hurt himself? He saw the hurt coming, _maybe, someday_ , and said oh no, not to me.

 

Now he won't ever be taken unawares again - except all those times it runs in from nowhere, seeps out of those quiet corners of his being and just blindsides him with the urge to scream or cry or punish himself somehow for being such an idiot.

 

Ray is in the process of dragging the top blanket off his bed onto the floor, compensating for the fact that he's not sure he'll sleep at all by going to bed early, when there's a knock on his apartment door. Ray has a serious debate with himself about answering it - he doesn't care who it is, he just wants to try and sleep. Stare at the ceiling until he stops thinking about Stella.

 

The knock comes again, and he heaves the blankets downward with a frustrated sound. "Yeah, yeah okay. Okay I'm coming."

 

He's talking to the air in general, as he heads for the door, hoping it's his landlord or a neighbor or some obnoxious kid selling girl scout cookies or something so he can just explode in a fit of noise until he feels better.

 

It's none of these things. It _is_ Fraser. Ray's already taking a great big breath to start yelling, so he finishes gathering it in, takes in the sight of the Mountie on his doorstep - again, the second time in as many nights. This was- what? A habit? Fraser has about the worst timing ever, Ray wants to tell him. Fraser doesn't deserve to get his head bitten off, though, so Ray just stares at him stupidly.

 

Fraser smiles - it's a thin, hopeful little thing, and it looks half starved but - it's Fraser. Smiling.

 

"Hi Frayz," He says, and he has no idea what else to do so he just says, "Come on in."

 

Fraser keeps ambushing him with smiles, and Ray always answers them, hollowly. He knows it can't touch him, not really. There is so little he lets in anymore - what's one more person to fool, wrapped in funny clothing.

 

Except it really seems like Fraser wants to be his friend. Ray isn't sure what to make of that. Deep down he knows that not everyone is out to hurt him. It can't be that way, right? What kind of miserable world would that be? On the other hand, that's just the way people are - they hurt each other even if they didn't _mean_ to, and all appearances and strange desires to put random things in his mouth _aside_ , Benton's human too. Fraser is _just human._

 

Because Ray has learned that wanting it - _all the wanting in the world -_ would never make anything so. He's fooling himself if he thinks he'll ever be better than he was with Stella. When it comes down to it, there is one thing Ray will never trust again - _himself_.

 

Fraser ignores his mostly-silence, and steps in when he's invited, Diefenbaker directly on his heels as always. He sits down next to where Fraser stops.

 

"I'm sorry to disturb you again, Ray."

 

"It's nothing, Frayz. What's up?"

 

"It's just that... I was thinking about you."

 

"What? Why?"

 

"Ray, when we met - you were learning to dance." Fraser says, looking down at the floor as if conjuring numbered step outlines in his imagination. Dief sits at his side, attention focused downward on the same spot.

 

"Yeah," Ray says, ruffling his fingers through his hair in exasperation. Fraser's behavior was so strange sometimes, Ray just couldn't get it. It's like somebody reached out and switched him onto some other wavelength. Some _non-Ray_ wavelength, where both of them suddenly stopped being able to intuitively _get_ each other. It felt like losing half of himself, when Ray couldn't tell what planet Fraser was thinking on.

 

"Would you show me?" Fraser asks, still looking at the floor, thoughts flown off to Mars or Mountie-land or wherever they went that Ray couldn't go. He bites off his sarcastic answer, stopped short by how small Fraser's voice had been, like Fraser finds the disconnect between them just as uncomfortable.

 

"It's-" Ray starts, lamely, suddenly embarrassed. "It's just the Tango, Frayz. I - I mean I learned it because I hadn't - because Stella was always so mad I couldn't dance. I was - I still am - trying to fix myself for her. But all the foxtrots in the world will never be enough - I mean, who cares if I can dance _now?_ "

 

"Show me," Fraser repeats, even more quietly.

 

Ray sighs, closes his eyes, and lifts his hands. Music would have helped, but he could remember every note in the song where he'd first failed his wife. Stella always wanted to tango at her wedding, and Ray had hated it. He still hated the fussy half steps, now done without a partner, from memory. In his mind, he did slow counts of eight, stepping and swinging in time, turning back and forth slowly.

 

"The Tango is a woman's dance, Frayz," Ray says, eyes still closed. "The guy is a support, a - a condiment."

 

"Compliment," Fraser corrects gently, from impossibly close.

 

"Yeah, that," Ray answers. "You just help her look good and don't step on her feet."

 

Ray extends his arm to twirl his imaginary partner, his mind keeping her face blank like a marionette instead of supplying Stella's features. His hand crashes into Fraser's chest, and Ray opens his eyes to stutter out an apology.

 

The words die half-spoken as Fraser takes his hand and falls easily into the Tango role opposite Ray. It's weird, so weird that Ray can't protest - his feet know what to do while his mind is a blank of disbelief and so they do it. Ray is dancing before he knows what he is doing.

 

"Never had a partner taller than me before," he says dumbly, just to say _something._

 

"Would you like me to lead?" Fraser asks, genuinely.

 

"Nah! I don't know the other part," Ray says, his mouth continuing with his thoughts before he can stop himself. "How do _you_ know the girl's part, Fraser?"

 

"Well," Fraser begins, and that's really when Ray's brain turns back on - he's slow-dancing with a _Mountie_ , in a way he'd never even been able to dance with Stella.

 

"Wait a minute," Ray says, and backs away a step suddenly. Fraser lets him go easily, but with something like regret on his features. And wasn't _that_ unexpected, just as much as the fact that Ray's feeling kind of disappointed at how quick Fraser had surrendered his hold. "You know what, I don't even want to know."

 

"It's something of an interesting story, Ray," Fraser says, a little too quickly, and then looks away, his hands dropping stiffly to his sides like falling to attention will make him feel less awkward in the face of them both suddenly realizing what had been happening. "But perhaps you are correct, it is one for another time."

 

Except Ray doesn't think it was an accident at all on Fraser's part. The Mountie had asked him to dance, after all, asked to be _shown_. And now - wait, he's looking away and it looks like Fraser is screwing up everything inside him like he's about to be told to go to hell, and what the heck was _that_ all about. They'd just been goofing around, right? Gotten a little carried away?

 

Ray knows better even as he starts to think it. He can't lie to _himself_ like that, let alone Fraser. Who is... who is turning around and starting to head for the door, beating the only retreat Ray has ever seen.

 

"Hey, Frayz, wait, I just uh," Ray says, scrambling over himself, launching from his stupor and stillness into a flurry of motion before Fraser gets his hand onto the doorknob and lets himself out, leaving things heavy and awkward and totally unsolved.

 

"Fraser," Ray repeats when it seems he's unheard, "Benton - wait!"

 

He finally manages to co-ordinate his limbs to all be moving the same direction, and gets his hand on to Fraser's shoulder.

 

"It's okay, Fraser, I'm just a little lost as to what's happening, here." Ray admits. So, five minutes ago, hell maybe five _seconds_ ago, Ray Kowalski would have told you he'd never even thought about another guy that way. Hell, he'd never thought about anyone but _Stella_ anyway, and Fraser is... well. Fraser. Different.

 

"It's just that I've come to realize that I really do care about you, Ray," Fraser says, to a spot on the ceiling somewhere maybe, or some framed art on the all behind Ray, or something in an upward and leftward direction. See? Different. Fraser can't even lie to cover up the fact that he's attracted to Ray.

 

 _Fraser is attracted to Ray._


	5. Chapter 5

Ray can't believe that Fraser possibly means what he's said. This has to be one of those Mountie things that doesn't translate the same way into Chicago English. So he stares, trying to make out what Fraser really means. The Mountie is still talking, but Ray's had his attention kicked right out of what Fraser is saying. He has to process, really think about it, like maybe with a cup of coffee or six, and a whole bag of M&M's.

 

Instead, Ray has to deal with this all suddenly landing in his lap like if Diefenbaker had jumped up there and taken it into his mind that he was staying. It feels about that real and heavy, too.

 

"Fraser," Ray starts, not too sure where he's going, but he does O.K. given the circumstances, in his opinion. "Just so we're clear, here, are you saying you-"

 

"Are attracted to you, emotionally, yes." Fraser finishes for Ray when he hesitates, still looking somewhere over Ray's head.

 

"Attracted, like-" Ray's mind still isn't quite wrapping around the concept.

 

Fraser's gaze suddenly comes down from the ceiling, a frown looking unnatural on hi features. His look says he's trying to decide if Ray is for real or not. Like Ray could maybe just be messing with Fraser on a subject like this. He becomes conscious of how he's standing, like almost practically on top of Fraser, his hands having pushed themselves into his pockets somewhere along the way and Fraser is getting _closer_ \- _oh._ Ray realizes - _he's going to-_

 

As Fraser's mouth meets his - and it's a little awkward with Fraser having to lean so far down like that - Ray has no doubt as to the Mountie's exact meanings when he'd said 'emotionally'. Ray actually has time to think _this isn't so bad_ , before Fraser pulls away.

 

Unbidden, Ray's hands lurch out of his jean pockets and catch hold of Fraser's shirt to keep him from straightening up. The look that wakes up in Fraser's expression at the gesture is halfway between hope and terror. Had _Ray_ caused all this worry?

 

"Fraser, that's not fair," he says, not letting go of his hold. "You gotta give me a chance to realize how I feel about it."

 

"Ah." Fraser answers, looking mortified.

 

"Stop with that face," Ray loosens his hold a little on Fraser's shirt so he's not making the guy feel like he's trapped there against his will or anything.

 

"Sorry," Fraser answers, but the loss of tension on his collar seems to have the opposite affect on him, and he's leaning in close again, and Ray's body starts doing that acting on its own thing again, leaning him into the kiss this time.

 

What he should be thinking about maybe is how Fraser is a guy, or all the things Fraser has put in his mouth even over the course of time they've known each other, or if Ray is just a substitute for the other Ray, maybe - but he doesn't think of anything at all. He doesn't, _mercifully_ , even think about Stella.

 

He's always been the sort to follow his instincts, and maybe in something like relationships that was a pretty terrible idea. Maybe this time, though, he actually wanted something that was good for him.

 

It feels good, anyway, just knowing that he is wanted at all. The kiss lingers at that first stage, just mouths pressed together, and Ray realizes _he's_ the one holding them there, both by his renewed grip and the fact that Fraser is - maybe always has been - waiting for him to make the next move.

 

He draws back just a fraction. "Fraser?"

 

"Yes Ray?" Fraser's breath is right there - his whole - _him_ is right there.

 

"You're not doing this out of some weird obligation thing?"

 

The question seems to strike Fraser in some unexpected place, but he shakes his head "I would never presume to-"

 

"Good," Ray says, pulling them back together again, not closing his mouth as they meet. Somehow it's not as weird as he keeps expecting it to be. Sure there's roughness to Fraser's face, his mouth is broader - and well, higher than he's used to, but at least he kisses straightforward. Fraser holds nothing in reserve.

 

It's probably the most genuine kiss Ray has ever had. At least in years. Fraser _means_ it.

 

"Fraser," he says again, more just exhales the word, breaking them apart for air.

 

"You can use my first name, Ray," Fraser answers. Somewhere in the interim his hands have come up to rest on Ray's shoulders, splayed broad-fingered and warm. The statement is way off the tracks and Ray forgets what he was going to say anyway.

 

"Benton's kind of not-hot," Ray answers, letting his mouth run away again.

 

"Ben okay?" he amends, looking up at Fraser, instead of where his hands are bundled up in red serge.

 

"Yes." Fraser answers, looking like he hadn't thought about _that_ \- his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose is red, but maybe, Ray thinks with a little satisfaction, that's just how _close_ they are.

-

 

For whatever reason, Dean can't stop wondering why Cas put him on this case - it seemed odd that he would be interested in it - it must mean it's somehow related to the apocalypse, is what Dean guesses. If it was a dragon, that kind of made sense. Nobody had seen them in hundreds of years if they were even real. He leaves a message on Cas's voice mail - at least he thinks he does, the name portion of the message is just breathing and button key tones. He wishes Cas would answer the damn phone.

 

Dean gives up thinking about it. He sits up, puts on his headphones, and turns up the music. He's always been the sort to learn lyrics easily, and they time their way into his mind without any effort. He doesn't sing - that reminds him of dying too much. He does close his eyes, and put his hands up to the sides of the ear pieces, pressing until he can feel the music in his fingertips.

 

It's so loud he can't hear anything else, and he knows he should never let his guard down, shouldn't risk his hearing, but _he's_ warded, the room is warded, he can feel the hex bag in his pocket, digging in against his hip. If he he focuses inward, Dean can imagine the carvings in his ribs, intricate. It's the first step to relaxing.

 

He makes it through almost the entirety of _Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap_ , which he'd convinced Sam to record directly from the LP for him, and Dean is enjoying the warm, close-to-record sound. It still feels colder on CD, somehow. Less real, but the turntable is too big to lug around. He's settled for leaving it at Bobby's.

 

Cas must come in sometime halfway through Dean's 'meditation', just when he's focused enough to let the music be everything, because there's a tentative touch at his knee - the extension of one long finger, a coldly calculated risk of contact. It's a poke more than a shake, and nothing like a _touch_. Gone as quickly as given.

 

Dean wants to scrunch up his eyebrows and ignore it. It's so _Cas_ that it doesn't jump him, even though he hadn't heard anyone approach. There's no connection in the contact, nothing like what he needs, but he won't give anyone the visual cue, won't do anything to cause concern.

 

He opens his eyes and looks up, lifting his eyebrows and focusing on his eyes - questioning, he prays, not scrunched and worried. Dean is good at lying with his expression, most times.

 

"Are you unwell?" Castiel asks. Dean reads the question on his lips, can't actually hear the angel's low tone over the music. He focuses harder on his features, and lifts one earphone off his ear.

 

 _No,_ Dean thinks, _not okay at all._ But he waits, expectant, while Cas repeats the question, then reluctantly lowers his headphones down around his neck. He can still hear the music clearly, but he can't drown in it anymore. It can't save him from this - the fact he'd let himself look like he needed something.

 

"No, I'm fine," he says, lightly. He forces his tone, it's habit. Dean makes a weak excuse that he's listening to the music and then all his emotions pile right up against each other when Cas just accepts it. The angel backs off, walks away. The one person who should know better - probably trusts Dean to tell him when something is wrong.

 

The cosmic joke here is that Dean has already asked for so much from Castiel, he'll never ask anything else again.

 

Castiel stands waiting, watching Dean with that intensity that's beyond human capability. He's measuring Dean - like they measure each other often. As much as Cas knows about him, they're still always trying to puzzle each other out. He has a moment where he realizes that as hard as it is for him to try and comprehend Castiel, it must be almost as difficult for the angel to understand _him._

 

Castiel has the advantage of knowing Dean's history, memories, all the pieces that composed him It was just the ability to understand the motivations of a free-willed creature that he seemed to lack. Or - well, maybe not even that. Where does Dean get off trying to apply his logic to Cas? It's just that he forgets not to - the angel wears his skin awkwardly, but to good effect. Maybe it's all that strangeness from something otherwise human that's so interesting.

 

"What did you find out?" Castiel asks, tucking his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and looking away at some far corner of the room. The sense of being looked _at_ though, increases. Like the angel couldn't be bothered to divide its attention, keeping track of where its vessel was looking at the same time as it was examining something.

 

"Not a whole lot was left by the time we got there," Dean explains, and fumbles the play button on the CD player in his lap to turn it off. The music is distracting. It halts suddenly, leaving silence, which Dean fills. "The skin had become this nasty goop."

 

Castiel still just waits, as if expecting more, or as if the information didn't surprise him much.

 

"You have anything you want to tell me?" Dean asks, losing his patience at last. "You've been awfully quiet about this thing since you set us on it."

 

"I have my suspicions." Castiel answers, infuriatingly. He doesn't look back at Dean, eyes running over the motel room corner instead.

 

"Care to share them with the rest of the class? We're the ones busting our asses, here."

 

Castiel's gaze finally turns on Dean, focused. More intense and direct than should come from human features. He feels put on the spot. It's hard to resist the urge to spill everything they've learned or guessed, but Dean manages to keep his mouth shut. He glares instead.

 

"Come on, give me _something_ , " he says, stubbornly. "We've been busting our humps, here."

 

"I suspect something,"Castiel starts, vaguely. Dean glares harder. "It sounds like a dragon-"

 

Dean cuts him off. "I knew it! They're really real?"

 

"Yes," Castiel answers, distantly. "I've encountered them before."

 

"How do we kill it?" Dean asks enthusiastically.

 

Castiel just looks at him. Feeling like he's either said something stupid or wrong, Dean hunches up his shoulders and arches his brows. How Castiel always manage to make him feel like second frigging grade again, Dean doesn't know.

 

"That's what you wanted us to do, right? Why else turn us onto this case?"

 

Castiel shakes his head, wordless. "I just wanted you to help me look into it."

 

"But now that we know it's dangerous, we have to do something - you know that, right?"

 

But as soon as Dean's said the words he's not sure they're right. It seems like something Cas might infer, from how he and Sam usually worked, but Cas had never said anything about hunting what they found. The ambiguity kind of pisses Dean off.

 

"So what _did_ you want us to do about it?" Dean challenges. "Are we supposed to find it and give it a hug?"

 

"Just find it. Tell me where it is." Castiel says, looking straight at Dean, and challenging him back.

 

"It's probably out there in the sewer somewhere, Cas," Dean growls. "Can't you just find it yourself? Pretty sure you'll avoid most people in the sewer and you're more likely able to fight a dragon off than we are."

 

Much to Dean's frustration, instead of answering, Castiel evades himself right out of the room. He disappears in an instant and the faint rustling of feathers.

 

"Great!" Dean says, just barely not shouting into the sky. "Thanks for clearing that up for me, Cas! Very helpful!"

-

 

 

 

"What's with those feebs coming around today, you think?" Ray asks huskily, when they break apart for breath, and he can hear the growl in his own voice. It's part frustration, like, _is that really what I'm thinking about_ and the rest of it is pretty easy to figure out. Want. Readiness.

 

Fraser's brows draw in curiously, and he draws back a little, like he's got to shift gears in his mind, and Ray thinks that's hot, too. He surprises himself with the knowledge that something so _Fraser_ could be so appealing, like the hot breath spreading along his collar bone as Fraser considers an answer.

 

That's the real contrast between them, Ray thinks, and he likes the chance to consider Fraser in this light - another surprise.

 

Ray's mind only really gets going when he's had a chance to think about things for a long time. When he himself is _getting going_ is really the best time. Ray's just like that - mostly he lets himself not think too much, but then at the end of the day, it always seems to come together. It'd had always driven Stella right up the wall when he'd asked questions like the one he'd just asked when they started to be intimate.

 

Fraser's an on-his-feet kind of guy. It seems like he _stops_ trying so hard to think when things get more heated, just lets right go and Ray likes that. Likes the way that Fraser will just unravel and let himself get lost in it. Even if that means they sometimes have some really odd moments, or conversations that don't quite match up.

 

"Those men weren't F.B.I. agents, Ray," Fraser informs, only way too late and in his best 'is it important?' Mountie voice.

 

"What." Ray takes a moment to process this information, then repeats himself, louder. "What? Fraser!"

 

"I assumed you knew, Ray."

 

"How was I supposed to know, Fraser?"

 

"Ah. Well." Fraser lifts one hand, and rubs at his left eyebrow for a second, calculating the scope of his mistake. "All government identification cards are printed with true pigments instead of synthetic inks."

 

"You can tell by _looking_?"

 

"Oh no, Ray. Visually, there is rarely any identifiable difference between true pigments and synthetic. It's the scent that differs"

 

"You... what, so you sniffed their badges?" Ray shouldn't let this surprise him anymore. There are two things Fraser can be counted upon to do - put things in his mouth and smell things.

 

"The odor is very distinct, Ray." Fraser assures him, which Ray takes to mean Fraser detected it with a more delicate sniff than his usual enthusiastic snurf. He can't really imagine that any FBI agent, real or not - would take too kindly to mounties inhaling their badge portfolios. Maybe they did, who knows? The FBI was like some magical, secretive _thing_ that Ray was glad to only deal with rarely. None of that was the point.

 

"So who _were_ they, then?" Ray demands - as if Fraser has any idea. To be honest, by that point, he was pretty sure Fraser could give any answer, justify it with his own insurmountable Mountie logic, and Ray would have to accept it until he could prove otherwise.

 

"I'm not sure, Ray," Fraser answers, which concerns Ray deeply. Fraser _always_ knows.

 

"You didn't sniff them and decide they were circus clowns or whatever?"

 

"Heavens, no," Fraser says. "No, circus clowns are usually very nice. I can usually identify them by the makeup under their nails more than any particular odor, unless they happen to have an affection for circus _peanuts_ , which have a very distinctive odor. Furthermore I am entirely uncertain as to what sort of motive clowns could have in this sort of situation, Ray-"

 

"Frayz, you're killing me," Ray cuts him off. He sits up, realizing that he's big-Kowalski-mouthed himself right out of the mood. He'd been in the zone, so to speak, ready for the ring., but this news had K.O.'d him before the bell. "You're saying the super-nose or whatever it is you call your magic powers - doesn't know anything about them?"

 

Fraser looks affronted - politely. "No, Ray, that isn't what I said."

 

"Well tell me what you know then, smart guy, huh?"

 

"They had contact with a lot of kerosene, gunpowder, and I would guess rock salt, though I suppose it could equally have been coarse sea salt. The man calling himself Agent Jones seemed to do repair work on his own vehicle - a 1967 Chevy-"

 

"Impala, yeah, I saw it. Nice car, too." Ray had liked the car, even. He and 'Agent Jones' had talked about it - and his GTO.

 

Fraser falls silent while Ray thinks, and reluctantly releases his hold on Ray when he starts to climb out of his lap, inching backwards onto his own feet and buttoning up his pants again. Sometimes he wishes he was more capable of shutting his brain off at will.

 

"Why the heck would two guys want information about the wackiest case we got, Frayz. That just bugs me." Ray could maybe, _maybe_ understand someone prying into details of a murder, but not _this._ "I mean, it was just this wacky one-off thing, this nasty skin. Why would anybody tamper with a police investigation of a giant crocodile skin?"

 

"I'm not sure, Ray." Fraser leans back, and Ray gets up to pace it out. "Unless perhaps the case was something more than we originally thought."

 

"So - what? I mean, what could it be?"

 

"Well, the simplest solution would be to ask them."

 

"Oh yeah, that _would_ be easy." Ray answers, sarcastically. "Let me just call them up and-"

 

Fraser's look stops him, and for a second Ray almost feels guilty for snapping. It wasn't the mountie's fault that Ray couldn't sniff-test the differences in inks - and really how did anyone ever even _learn_ how to do that _anyway?_ Mountie school? Some kind of crazy, Mountie smelling school, with a library of scents that they had to spend hours memorizing to get their sniff-sniff merit badge? How did Fraser even have room in his brain for all that stuff? Ray resolved that he had been _born_ that way and marked it down on the long mental list of 'Questions for Fraser that Ray _does not_ want an answer to."

 

"I think we can safely assume where they've gone." Fraser says.

 

Ray agrees.

 

"Alright," he says. "Saddle up, I guess."

 

 _And that_ , he thinks, _is a great choice, Kowalski._ He had successfully talked himself right out of sex, and right _into_ an evening of tromping around in the sewers with Fraser. Ray knows this isn't the first time he's big-mouthed himself from a good situation into a shitty one - no pun intended - but he's pretty sure this takes the trophy for 'weirdest time Ray ever didn't get laid because he is a police detective'.

-


	6. Chapter 6

There are very few places Dean would like to be less than the sewer, he's quickly learning. He's crouched down in the culvert moving carefully, stooped and feeling awfully vulnerable. He and Sam had managed to get hold of the plans for the lines in the area, and had agreed to enter from different parts to explore more of it more efficiently. He's a little confused as to how a thirty foot lizard with wings would possibly fit down here, but he supposes they might like tight fits better than people do.

 

He's not sure, now that he's down here in the narrow pipes. There was a thin, running column of water in the center of the culvert, and the thing seemed to go on forever. Dean had to duck his head to keep from constantly hitting it on the ceiling. In one hand he carries a flashlight that feels somewhat inadequate, and in the other he's decided his best bet is a spear. Dean's never used one before, but the principal seems pretty basic. Pointy end goes into the dragon, with all luck.

 

They'd argued for a while about swords versus sticks, and finally after Sam had bombarded him with enough pictures of knights on horseback stabbing dragons with striped sticks, Dean had relented. If it was so strongly represented, it usually had some basis in fact.

 

He still doesn't like it.

 

Suddenly the feeling of the space around him seems to grow, and he turns his flashlight toward the opposite wall, discovering a short side-tunnel that leads off of the main culvert, diverting more water into the trickle that passes below Dean's feet. He approaches the entrance carefully and shines the flashlight into it, discovering a larger chamber with a ladder that's like a series of giant staples hammered in between the bricks that make up the walls of the chamber. Water drips in a fairly steady stream from the sides above, but the ladder itself is protected by a raised lip at the top of the shaft.

 

Dean is unsure how to navigate the ladder with both the spear and the flashlight. He settles for strapping the spear against his back with a length of rope, though he knows getting up over the edge at the top of the ladder will be difficult that way, and carrying the flashlight trapped between his thumb and first few fingers while he uses his ring and pinky of that hand to hold onto the ladder.

 

"Great idea, by the way, Dean," he assures himself, because he's certain no one is listening. "Go down into the sewer, _alone_ to fight a thirty foot dragon with a pointy stick."

 

He hoists himself up over the lip and into the inch of water running along the floor. He'd arrived in a cistern of some kind, the huge open space stretching out in every direction and water dripping from the unseen ceiling above. Even shining his light upward only revealed vague shadows of where the water came from, and he supposed this must be a holding tank for emergency flood waters, letting them trickle out more slowly through the opening he'd just come from and several others like it that he could see.

 

"A lair," he muses, thinking that if he were a giant flying reptile, he'd probably want to live here. "With many exits."

 

Really it could get to god only knows where from here. It was appealing to Dean, as a place with so many easy exits and so much room to hide. Suddenly, urgently, he hopes the thing isn't home right now. He looks down, scouting around for signs of occupation.

 

From the water by one of the exits, he recovers a six-inch long claw that sends shivers down his spine at the exact moment he realizes he's not alone. Though there are regular sounds of water hitting water - and he's getting quite wet, he realizes - a bigger splash behind him puts him on edge.

 

He turns around quickly, probing the depths of the cistern with his flashlight and stepping carefully around the holes leading down and out.

 

-

 

"Perhaps they were cryptozoologists."

 

"Hoo-da-what-a?"

 

"People who have devoted their life to the study of cryptids."

 

"This is a _Canadian_ thing, isn't it?"

 

"No, Ray, it is an actual profession, albeit a strange one."

 

"So strange they gotta pretend to be FBI agents?"

 

"Well... I'm sure they had their reasons."

 

"Okay so they weren't FBI, but they _were_ weirdos."

 

"Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it weird to be fascinated by the study of new and unknown animals, Ray. For example, when I was a boy my uncle Montgumery - a friend of the family, really, not a blood relation -"

 

Ray can feel his eyes trying to roll back in his head. He squints really hard at the road, an tightens his grip on the steering wheel, wishing they could just _be_ there already.

-

 

It lands in motion, mouth open. With a guttural noise of displeasure, it spins sharply around , long tail flying toward Dean with surprising speed. It hits the wall instead, and for once Dean is glad they're in the enclosed space of the sewers.

 

Dean ducks down, looking for any likely target for his lance, trying frantically to see if there is any indication of a soft spot in the scales. For the most part, they don't look terribly hard - no harder than a crocodile's anyway.

 

The body curls back on itself, serpentine, longer in the neck, barrel and tail than a croc. Dean's whole vision seems to fill with teeth. Animal-like it presents only claws, fangs, and sharp dangerous parts as a target, the rest of it curled safely behind.

 

However threatening its posture - mouth open, crouched down, belly to the floor and wings open ready to spring - it stays silent. Dean is grateful, the sewer would have amplified a roar, echoed it forever. Possibly the dragon could smell Sam and didn't want to draw him to them.

 

Both waited, Dean not wanting to strike into the waiting trap of jaws that he suspected could spring closed with the force of a bear trap and equal lethality. His wooden stick felt pitifully small and flimsy in his hands. How did anyone ever _start_ doing this? Charging at big, powerful creatures with a tiny, pointy toothpick just did not seem to be a natural instinct.

 

"C'mon, ugly!" Dean challenges. It doesn't go for it, just remains coiled, curled, and ready to strike.

 

The stand off lasts for what seems like forever, Dean's flashlight making living embers of the dragon's eyes. He measures himself against the monster, and knows who _he_ would lay money on. Why did he think this was going to be cool? They both lose patience in the same instant, only the dragon feints, where Dean extends a committed blow. He discovers exactly how quickly it can move when it suddenly changes direction an heaves its full bulk against his chest shoulder first, bearing him down to the floor.

 

The lance shatters under the bulk of the monster when Dean hits the ground. He can feel the broken shaft ratchet over the smooth scales and finds no soft spot to gain purchase. It's splayed, clawed foot thuds down onto his chest and crazily - even through the sudden sharp burst of adrenaline - he feels the damp of it soak through his shirt and is revulsed by the thought of what it had been swimming around in.

 

A cold reptilian eye stares down at him, and the dragon pins him effortlessly with one long claw digging in sharply below his collar bone. An effortless shift of its weight and Dean's chest would cave in. He wonders how bad it's going to suck to feel all of his ribs break before he thinks, wryly, that it will suck a lot less than going back to Hell.

 

It doesn't crush him, though. For a long moment, it just looks at him as if measuring him up against some unknowable scale - but that couldn't be right. _It's waiting for Sam_ , Dean thinks after a moment, the thought somehow surfacing above the whirlwind of panic in his mind. _It doesn't want to get distracted with me and get ambushed._

 

He surrenders his hold on the haft of the lance and feels around until he finds one of the larger splinters of wood. The dragon is lifting its head to look around warily when Dean suddenly jams the splinter upward, toward the juncture of wing and shoulder.

 

"C'mon Cloverfield!" he challenges, as he feels the spike slide home, and the dragon grunts in surprised pain. "You better get me if you're going to!"

 

The dragon's attention turns back to Dean suddenly and a reptilian growl slithers free from its maw just before the creature's throat begins to swell with a sudden intake of air. Dean has time to tense up and get ready for the fire, when the dragon pauses. A momentary emotion - almost human - seems to cross its features. The lizard-like eye that Dean can see blinks twice, and the creature swallows.

 

The maw slowly lowers toward his face and the shift in its weight creaks through Dean's ribs painfully. Inches from Dean's hair, it inhales. The exhalation that follows is unpleasant - hot, not reeking - but acrid. It smells like a room filled with steam and old smoke. After a moment, Dean realizes it isn't killing him - just _sniffing_ him.

 

The pressure on his chest starts to ease. The creature draws its head back on its long neck.

 

 _What the hell_? Dean's fingers slacken on the splinter in surprise. The dragon slowly, warily, shifts off of him. Its attention stays pointedly, almost hypnotically on Dean. It keeps the eye-contact, withdrawing its clawed foot last, poised to drop it again if Dean moves a way it doesn't like.

 

He doesn't expect to get a third chance, so Dean sits still, trying not to piss it off. What had just happened - he did _not_ know what to make of that. Up close, the creature is fascinating to watch. The details slowly imprint themselves on his mind - a long, low slung body that resembles a crocodile's superficially in shape - in bulk it easily outstrips any animal he's ever seen. The wings are folded flat to the body in the enclosed space of the sewer, but he supposed they would extend on either side almost as long as the creature itself was. Surely, it was capable of flight. Someone probably would have noticed a thirty foot crocodile soaring through the air, though. It looks at him with some cold, distinct intelligence shining out of yellow, slitted eyes, and Dean understands in an instant that he is facing something with an intellect matching his own. The choice to spare his life is not random happenstance - there is a logical reasoning behind it.

 

"Dean!" Sam's voice cut the darkness, and the dragon spins sharply, throat swelling again, just before the deafening report of a shotgun slams Dean's eardrums, echoing throughout the enclosed sewers. It recoils, though the rock salt peppers harmlessly against its hide.

 

With a huge splash it heaves itself back into the muck. It disappears beneath the surface before Sam's second shot splatters the sewage after it, splashing Dean with the unpleasant soup. He recoils in disgust, picking himself up in time to stop Sam's third shot with a shout.

 

"Stop! It's no good, you won't hurt it like that."


	7. Chapter 7

The Impala is parked in the same place Ray remembers the hick's boat being and he can't explain the exact emotion that he feels to see it there. He's pissed, certainly, really heated - but why the hell would these guys come all the way out here unless maybe they know something he and Fraser don't about the damn thing. For certain, he wants some damn answers.

 

"Fraser, we better take the flashlights," he says, climbing out and slamming the door. Ray checks his gun, makes sure it's loaded, and fetches his glasses out of his shirt pocket.

 

"Ray," Fraser attracts his attention. He and Diefenbaker are nosing around the Impala, and Ray comes over to look also. There's an empty bag of rock salt blown up against one wheel, fluttering in the breeze.

 

"They spent some time by the trunk," Fraser says, making out footprints that Ray could barely discern from the tire tracks and the rest of the general disturbance of the ground. Mud was great for picking up impressions, but there were tons from the yokels and news crew, not to mention his own and Fraser's from the last visit. Fraser could tell which was which without having to think about it.

 

"They stopped for lights, too - or weapons."

 

"Possibly both, Ray."

 

"Yeah well if I thought maybe that thing was still alive, I'd want both too," Ray agrees, squaring himself up and unlocking the trunk of his GTO to similarly gear up. He passes Fraser the big lamp out of his road kit - he'd had to change enough flat tires in the dark that he knew how valuable it was to have one when you needed it.

 

Fraser installs the battery and tests it while Ray wishes he'd thought to bring a police cruiser instead so he'd have a shotgun instead of just his sidearm. He's a good shot, but he's not sure how much stopping power a nine millimeter handgun will have against a thirty foot reptile.

"So, what, you think maybe it's some kind of - dinosaur or something?" he asks, as they approach the culvert. It gapes open, wide and dark already like some kind of mouth waiting for them.

 

"Well, that's unlikely Ray," Fraser says, reassuringly but without making Ray feel too stupid for bringing it up - possibly by telling him _how stupid_ it was since dinosaurs had been extinct for like a million years. "Much more likely that it is a previously undiscovered species."

 

"But how does something that big go un-found , I mean, it's not like a new insect or something," Ray argues - he doesn't really _want_ to, he just likes hearing Fraser's voice close by.

 

"If it's intelligent enough and reclusive enough, then even a large animal could go hidden for years," Fraser answers, sweeping the light helpfully . Ray steps up into the culvert, and reaches back to help Fraser up, curling his fingers under Fraser's elbow so he can keep both hands on the lamp.

 

"After all, several species of primate, and even the Bornean Clouded Leopard were all recently - well, if not recently discovered, recently discovered to be separate and distinct species," Fraser continues, trying to be helpful. Ray's got no idea what he's talking about, but he doesn't mind the National Geographic session right now.

 

In the moment after Ray helps Fraser up into the pipe, Ray realizes he hears something that had previously been hidden under their footsteps and voices. It's a low, slithery-wet sound that makes Ray's heart start hammering as it sinks down into his tennis shoes.

 

It's moving closer, low thudding sounds beginning to accompany it.

 

"Do you-?" Ray asks, keeping his voice quiet.

 

"Hear that? Yes, Ray." Fraser whispers.

 

Ray draws his gun.

 

"I think we should-" Fraser begins

 

"Just hold the light steady, Ben," Ray answers, in no mood for Fraser logic. He doesn't want to divide his attention at the moment.

 

"Understood." Fraser breathes, just as his light flares off of two bright green-glowing points in the distance. They are growing rapidly, and Ray feels the corrugated metal piping begin to shake unsteadily beneath his feet. Whatever the thing is, it's heavy and moving fast. Ray aims for one of the moving points and squeezes off three rounds. He hears one ricochet, but the other two must hit.

 

It doesn't even slow down. Ray struggles to adjust his aim as it bursts full body into the circle of light Fraser's lamp casts. The ground beneath him seems to waver under its rapidly progressing weight. Ray realizes he's yelling as his entire vision seems to fill with wide open jaws, flashing eyes, and charging animal. He fires off another round as it's right on top of them, and he can see the shot glance off its thick hide.

 

The thing doesn't even slow down as it barrels into them, and suddenly Ray is stumbling backwards over the lip of the culvert and into the muddy disgustingness collected beneath it. As he begins to duck and curl to protect himself, he registers strong, muddy, red-clad arms curling around him in a similar protective manner.

 

The monster at least doesn't step on them as it leaps out of the culvert - do crocodiles _leap_? Ray thinks crazily, shoving his nose against Fraser's chest. and wrapping his hands around the Mountie's head to make sure it stays down, too. The monster lands just shy of the parked vehicles.

 

It does not cease its forward momentum and Ray hears an ominous crunching sound that makes him look up sharply. It's not the GTO that the monster is launching itself off of, thank god, but the Impala. It unfurls massive wings that had previously been held tight against its body and hurls itself into the air, one forepaw crumpling the hood of the 'agent's' Impala like it was made of cheap tin.

 

The car groans back on its shocks as the creatures weight leaves it and the thing gets airborne faster than Ray would have believed possible. It climbs up and up, and Ray and Fraser both untangle to look at it. Ray's not ure he can believe what he's seeing at all. Maybe he'd hit his head falling out of the culvert, or maybe a giant crocodile had eaten him, and death involved watching giant flying crocodiles disappear into the night sky.

 

"Fraser," Ray begins, because he _needs_ to know that someone else saw that.

 

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser's voice is small. Ray glances over to find him staring at the sky as if he's utterly lost. The lamp hangs forgotten in his hand, illuminating their feet. He's covered in mud, Ray thinks, as opposed to the more likely alternative.

 

"You lost your hat," Ray says, because it's about the only normal thing he can think of to say. Fraser helps him up, and then opens his mouth like he was expecting something different, before closing it again, lifting a muddy hand to his head.

 

"Yes, Ray. I suppose I have," he says, as if just realizing.

 

Turning the lamp to and fro as if finding the Stetson is the most important thing at the moment, Fraser finally directs the light on Diefenbaker, sitting about halfway between them and the cars. The wolf is staring down at a deep five-clawed impression in the mud.

 

Ray thinks he knows what the wolf is looking at. When he and Fraser approach, both look down to find the crushed remains of the hat inside, pressed into the mud. Fraser frowns, and gingerly begins to fish it out.

 

"Let it go, partner," Ray says, putting a hand on the mountie's shoulder. He's profoundly glad it's only the hat and not Fraser's head.

 

"I suppose you're right, Ray," Fraser says, and seems to be comparing the size of the footprint to his own hand. Even with all his fingers stretched out, Ray thinks he couldn't fill even just the pad of the foot.

 

"What the hell was that thing?" Ray asks - because it's a question that refuses not to be asked. For once, Fraser has no more answer than Ray does, and it doesn't feel nearly as good as Ray thought it might.

 

Light describes a crazy arc in the corner of his field of vision, and splashing from behind them turns Ray around suddenly. He's lifting his weapon at the same time as he's turning, trying to figure out how many shots he has left and thinking only ' _there's more than one of them'_.

 

It's not another monster dropping out of the pipe, it's two human figures with a flashlight. The fake agents.

 

"Freeze!" Ray yells, and Jones and Greenwood - no longer dressed in their suits - look surprised. Greenwood is carrying a shotgun, Jones is covered head to toe in filth and what looks like blood.

 

"Drop your weapons!" he says, bracing himself. "Fraser, get that light on them."

 

Greenwood is placing the shotgun on the ground when the light circles around onto them, and Jones has his hands up, looking like hell anyway.

 

"Did you see it?" Jones asks, urgently.

 

"Yeah it practically knocked us into the next county," Ray answers, like they could miss a _thirty foot flying crocodile_.

 

"It took off," Ray continues, but any further words he might have are cut off by Jones' discovery of the damage to his car.

 

"Oh _hell_ no!" he says, dropping his hands - over Ray's protests - and heading straight for the injured Impala. "What happened to you, baby?'

 

Ray, shaken, decides to lower his own weapons in favor of getting some answers.

 

"A giant lizard with wings _landed_ on it," he answers, raising his voice. "And if you assholes don't tell us what the hell is going on, it won't be the worst thing to happen to you today!"

 

"Ray, I believe we can come to some kind of understanding - " Fraser tries to be diplomatic and defuse the situation.

 

"My understanding is that these clowns have some answers for us, and they're going to start talking or we take them in for impersonating federal agents."

 

Greenwood is looking uncertainly from Jones to Ray, like he's waiting for a cue from his accomplice. Jones is still bemoaning the damage to his car, and Ray Puts on his best 'I mean business' face, making a point of putting away his gun.

 

"It was a damn dragon," Jones says, his hands on the dent in the hood of his car.

 

"A _what_ ?" Ray asks, incredulously. "You been reading too much Harry Potter or something?"

 

He discovers that he's much more willing to accept that it was some kind of freak dinosaur or genetic mutation than a dragon. Both of the 'agents' are staring at him with absolute conviction, and Ray actually finds himself pausing to think about it.

 

He looks at Fraser, to see if the Mountie buys it. Fraser looks clearly uncomfortable and filthy. He looks like he might maybe be realizing that his best answer lines up with what the two fake agents are saying, and that he doesn't much like the idea.

 

Or maybe he's just cold and muddy and his hat is a casualty of war.

 

"You're serious?" Ray asks the whole group, because he's feeling like he's behind the curve here.

 

"Well," Fraser starts, clearly trying to find a compromise that all parties can live with. "It's more likely an undiscovered throwback species, but clearly it shares enough traits with the legendary creature known as 'dragon' that the name will serve as the best one to use at present."

 

Diefenbaker is looking up at Fraser like the wolf can't believe it either.

 

"Possibly it's the creature that the legends were based on," Fraser explains to Dief, like he's trying to convince _him,_ too.

 

"This is nuts,' Ray says. There's nothing else to say. "You guys came here _looking_ for it? Who the hell are you, anyway?"

 

"Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else?" Greenwood asks, looking pointedly at the three others. Ray becomes aware that he's standing around in the dark, covered in mud and who knows what else.

 

"What, like the _station_?" I can make that happen."

 

"Uh, no," Greenwood answers. "There's a hotel not too far from here - we can talk in private and get cleaned up."

 

"It _is_ unwise to remain exposed to the bacteria likely present in the sludge from the sewer," Fraser agrees. Ray's glad he keeps an over night bag in his trunk. The clothes that he's in are probably a complete loss now.

 

"Yeah, okay," Ray relents. "Will your car run?"

 

Jones pops the hood and considers the engine - which doesn't look like it's been damaged by the weight. The guy shrugs, and then slides his arm into the open window, putting the key in the ignition and turning the car on. It starts without trouble, much to Jones' visible relief.

 

"Alright. Greenwood, you ride with me. Fraser, you and Jones lead the way. Make sure he doesn't try anything."

 

Jones looks like he might protest but eventually thinks the better of it, and Greenwood settles himself into the GTO's passenger seat without further complaint.

 

"So you guys aren't really named after Foreigner, are you?" Ray asks, as he turns the key.

 

"I'm Sam Winchester," the guy answers, with a bitter chuckle at some inside joke. "That's Dean. We're hunters."

-

 

"Okay so everything you've ever heard of is real," Dean says, once they've all shuffled awkwardly into the hotel room. It's way too many bodies in a small space and the fact that one of them is a cop makes Dean nervous as hell.

 

The guy had faced down a dragon and not run off convinced of his own insanity, at least. Dean has no idea what the Mountie makes of all of it, but he seems to be handling himself with more calm than anyone else.

 

"What do you mean 'everything'?" Detective Vecchio asks, incredulous. "like aliens and conspiracy plots and Elvis is still alive in Mexico?"

 

Dean makes a face - this could never just be easy, could it? You'd think a Chicago police detective who worked with a frigging Mountie every day might have a clue that there was some weird shit in the world.

 

"Vampires," Dean lists, "Real. Werewolves, real. Demons, real. Ghosts, real. Dragons - apparently frigging real! That answer your question, wiseass?"

 

Vecchio has nothing to say to that - he's making a face that Dean thinks indicates he's thinking of the best way to get mental health professionals involved. Dean looks at Sam for help.

 

"Basically," Sam tries, "stories all have a base in reality, and if it's something widespread and persistent , there's usually a reason."

 

"So, like I should worry about Bigfoot or what?" the detective asks, looking a bit defensive of himself.

 

"Well," the Mountie cuts in, before Sam or Dean can say anything, "I have seen some evidence to support the theory that large, bipedal animals of that general description may well exist. Many times while on extended patrol I have encountered signs of an animal I couldn't identify but which might well match the general given idea of a 'Yeti' or 'Bigfoot'."

 

Detective Vecchio turns his disbelieving look on his partner, but seems to think better of it when he sees no hint of amusement in the man's face. As if he doesn't have to ask the question, it's just been answered.

 

"Okay," Vecchio says experimentally, "and I've just seen a dragon or whatever, I guess. So maybe the stories aren't all complete malarkey. But I mean, why don't we hear more about this crap on the news - or, hell. I mean, I'm a cop. I've seen a lot of shit. Never any vampires or ghosts out side of crappy movies."

 

"Well," Sam shrugs, "vampires are really rare - they have to worry about hunters, and it's actually pretty straightforward to kill one. Ghosts are usually tied to a place or an object - so if you don't get near enough to that place or thing then - you probably won't see one."

 

"Hunters?" Vecchio asks.

 

"Like us," Dean supplies, getting impatient with all the baby steps. Either this guy believes them and is going to butt out and let them do their job or Dean needs to start planning an escape route. "We go after these things - try to keep them from hurting people. Kill them if we can-"

 

"For a living?"

 

"Kind of," Sam answers tactfully. "We're sort of independently wealthy."

 

The detective peers around at their second rate hotel room in obvious disbelief. Dean agrees that Sam's lie is extremely weak, given the evidence, but Vecchio seems at least willing to extend the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he just doesn't want to know if it's a lie so he can ignore it.

 

"Ah," Fraser says, piecing together the puzzle of why he hadn't been able to identify their profession. "Given the reactions you must get if you try to attempt gathering information on your quarry without disguise, I begin to understand the need for subterfuge."

 

His tone isn't exactly approving, but Dean guesses the guy is bending all kinds of rules by being involved in official police investigations anyway.

 

"So you - what, you kill these things?" Vecchio asks - and seems to be considering the moral implications involved.

 

"We usually only get involved if it's actually dangerous," Dean says, blandly. "Like if people die or disappear under unusual circumstances, that's usually how we know to start looking. So no, we don't go around knocking off unicorns or anything."

 

The detective is obviously considering their words again, trying to catch them in something he can obviously disapprove of - maybe something not quite so morally - if not legally - incriminating. The gears turn and turn, as Vecchio considers the case he has experience with - or maybe Dean's words just made him worry he'd done bad police work by writing the whole thing off as ridiculous.

 

It's finally getting through to him, Dean realizes, that he's going to have to be aware of all this when he looks into cases now. Dean feels bad for the guy - these two seemed okay. Like they genuinely wanted to do good. He figures they're in for a hell of a time trying to decide what to do about this case - and any others they might come up against now that they knew the truth.

 

"So you're saying you think this thing killed some people?" Vecchio asks at last. "I haven't seen any bodies that could be described as 'torn apart by a mythical creature', so you think maybe it ate them?"

 

"No, actually - that's what's a little strange," Sam answers, maybe trying to put the guy at ease a bit more. "There were no unexplained disappearances or death - just that odd skin."

 

"So you knew it was a dragon that way?"

 

"No. We thought it was weird - and it's kind of a weird time right now," Dean says, trying to keep things as simple as possible. "A friend asked us to look into it."

 

Glancing at Sam, he gives his best 'ix-nay on the whole pocalypse-a' look. That was _way_ more complicated than he wanted to explain, and there was only so much stuff you could drop in someone's lap in a day.

 

"Okay," Veccchio says, and seems to curb his curiosity in favor of a more down to business approach. "So now what, though? I mean whatever it is it's definitely bad news. We know where it lives now so, what? We go in ready for it?"

 

Every set of eyes in the room turns to Dean for the answer. He realizes it's probably because he's the only one with a dragon foot print on his chest. For a moment he's honestly at a loss, he hadn't had much time to think about it yet.

 

"I'm not so sure it's that easy. I think it's smarter than most of the stuff we fight. Might be just as smart as us, actually. It had the chance to turn me into a deep fried shish-kebab, but it - changed its mind I guess."

 

Dean clearly remembers the warning, the measuring look he'd been given. He's not sure he'd call it a _human_ sort of intelligence exactly, but he and it had pretty clearly understood each other in that moment before Sam had shot at it.

 

"So - what, we're talking Pete's Dragon here or something?" Vecchio asks, as Dean's moment of consideration stretches on.

 

"Not that. I mean, it's clearly capable of defending itself. And it fucked up my car. I'm just saying I don't think it's attacking people unprovoked - pretty sure we'd have heard of it before now if that was the case."

 

"So we just wait for it to actually kill someone, Dean?" Sam asks, flatly. "If it's not dangerous, why'd Cas ask us to look into it?"

 

Of course Sam would open his big mouth about an awkward issue in front of people who would be totally lost and have a ton of questions. Dean could kill him. After already explaining that ghosts were real, he wasn't looking forward to trying to deal with the sort of theological crisis that explaining angels, demons, and Hell were also real. Heaven was still debatable. If it was full of angels, it probably sucked.

 

"He's been weird about this whole thing," Dean says, hoping Sam will get the point and shut up about it. They'll talk later - without a peanut gallery that came in most of the way through the show.

 

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's hostile tone, but lets the matter drop.

 

"Anyway it's probably gone for at least tonight, and honestly it may never be back," Dean says, addressing Vecchio and Fraser again. "We'll head back tomorrow and see if we can find any sign of it, or its habits, or any reason it might not be gone entirely."

 

"It probably thinks we're pretty warned off," Vecchio says. "You really think it'll totally abandon its nest?"

 

Deans a little worried about the 'we's' that are getting thrown around. He doesn't want to be stuck hand-holding these guys - he and Sam already have enough to worry about.

 

"Sam and I will check it out tomorrow-"

 

"Huh-uh, no way. This is still my investigation at the station. You'd already be in jail if I hadn't seen the damn thing myself." Vecchio asserts. Just what Dean was worried about. "I'm still not sure I shouldn't throw you in anyway. So we continue this investigation together, or you can see what kind of monsters you find behind bars."

 

"Suit yourself," Dean sighs. "Are you going to babysit us all night or will you go on Scout's Honor that I just want a shower and some sleep at this point?"

 

As tempting as it would be to just cut their losses and run at this point, Dean doesn't want to make a move without discussing it with Cas first. The angel is as difficult as he is infuriating at times, but he's also their inside line to all things related to stopping Lucifer from cooking the planet into his own personal beachfront timeshare.

 

"No," Vecchio answers. "I figure you guys are smart enough to know what kind of trouble you'll be in if you take off or you've been bullshitting us."

 

"I wish I could say we were just trying to cover our own skins," Dean sighs, lifting a hand to the back of his head and ruffling it through his hair tiredly.

 

"Guess this dump probably still has some rooms," Vecchio agrees, and turns to gesture toward his partner. The Mountie has been strangely quiet, maybe he actually has found a subject he doesn't know much about, and is taking in all the information he can instead. Or maybe he was just in partial shock after having a damn dragon run into him.

 

It sucks, Dean knows.

-

 

It's not until he's at the counter, Fraser trailing behind him in a way that's unlike him, that life starts to catch up to him. He'd gone from - _god,_ pretty much dry humping Fraser into the couch - to hunting crocodile monsters in the sewer. How had that happened?

 

It had all fallen together as naturally as those complicated domino setups - like the two of them had been building it all up without Ray realizing for months. Or maybe Ray was just desperate and Fraser wanted to help him because Fraser wanted to help _everybody_.

 

He'd held it off without even realizing that it was hovering overhead, and so now Ray has one of those terrifying train-wreck moments he hates, _so_ much. It's not that the emotion blasts through all the barriers he's' been stacking up together, fortifying - for years. It's not that Fraser is a _guy_ and now Ray has to deal with all these complicated questions he has for himself.

 

It's that he'd thought he'd been doing so well, and right now, right this stupid second with his hand hovering over the bell that'll bring the night clerk in to help them instead of sitting in the other room watching hockey and pretending they aren't there. Right now, Ray realizes he'd been doing nothing at all like _well._

 

What the hell is he supposed to do now? He stumbles over something so ridiculous as how many hotel rooms they're going to need and Ray freezes up. Can he really just jump right back into that? How - it seems way more complicated now, when he looks back on it and he can feel Fraser's eyes on the back of his head and maybe the Mountie can smell the terror or whatever.

 

Politely, he puts his hand in the center of Ray's back and leans around him to ring the bell for service. And that was so like Fraser, god, how could the guy always know what to do like that? Ray moves out of the way and lets him handle it while he tries to remember what he'd done when Stella shit hit him like this.

 

He's pretty sure he'd just swallowed it and worked it out later at the shooting range or getting his ass kicked at boxing. But he's not - he's not _mad_ at Fraser, like he usually was at Stella. This is different.

 

Fraser, perhaps in the interest of avoiding the sort of questions that might send Ray right back over the edge, books two rooms.

 

Outside the office, Ray's knees give and he sits down hard on the sidewalk curb. He has got to get ahold of himself - this is utterly pathetic. Fraser is looking down at him with clear concern, and Ray doesn't even know _what he wants_.

 

Scratch that, he knows exactly what he wants, because he'd practically thrown himself fat Fraser earlier. But he also knows - is painfully aware - what could happen if he went into this without thinking about it. Fraser isn't Stella, but if Ray lets him in, he could hurt Ray just like she had. Not that he would _mean_ to, just that it would be possible.

 

Probable, even, because when Ray is honest with himself, he's still carrying Stella's ghost around and that is hardly a desirable trait.

 

"Ray?" Fraser asks, and there are room keys in his hand. They're both tired, and here Ray is, making them sit outside. How did Fraser even put up with him?

 

"Sorry, Frayz - just everything's hitting me all at once, I guess."

 

Fraser sits down next to Ray, and Ray thinks how grateful he is for his partner's patience. Then, irritatingly, Ray wonders how long it is before he wears that patience out. He's never seen Fraser lose his temper, but he knows it must be possible.

 

"We have had an unusually long day," Fraser says, his voice gentle. Diefenbaker sits on Ray's other side, invading his personal space and Ray doesn't mind for once when the wolf pushes his cold nose into Ray's neck.

 

"Even for us," Ray agrees, lifting his hand into Dief's fur and ruffling it affectionately. There, okay. Like normal, and everything's cool. Ray doesn't have to think of - the other stuff.

 

He gets up, wordlessly. Knowing somehow that he's the one setting the pace for all three of them. Maybe he always has been, even though he'd come into the situation just trying to follow someone else's lead. Fraser passes him a key with a giant wooden toggle chained to it - it says _13_ and Ray wants to laugh - hysterically, maybe.

 

Fraser classy wooden key toggle says '12'. Right next door, like he always seemed to be, ready for Ray to lean on whenever he wanted. Only not, since it turns out they're across the courtyard from each other. Fraser still sees him to his door.

 

When they're there, and the moment hits him - like maybe two rooms or no, he should ask Fraser into his to stay, Ray has no idea what to do. He almost freezes up again, but then Fraser takes control of the situation. Fraser stands muddily on Ray's doorstep as Ray lingers in the doorway like a ghost, tucks his hands behind his back and meets Ray's gaze.

 

"Good night, Ray."

 

Ray wants to tell him he should stay, but he forgets how and Fraser is walking way while all Ray's mind can do is struggle with the concept that if he does this, it means he and Stella are _really_ over.

 

He's not sure he can ever just make the conscious decision to admit they might not ever have _been_ \- at least not what _he_ thought they were.

 

He showers, crams his filthy, ruined clothes into the hotel trash can where they take up the whole thing, and changes into what he has - soft flannel pants that are too hot for this time of year so instead he boots the room A/C up without much hope it will actually help.


	8. Chapter 8

Ray tries sleeping in the bed, but all he could do is stare at the green clock letters, telling him minute for minute that he isn't sleeping. Ten o one, ten o one, his mind repeats, insanely. _You're in bed so early, nothing to stay up for, make your own rules now Ray old boy, just your own timeline._ He's laying on top of a made bed, the hotel's spare blanket recovered from the linens closet so he can sleep only under that. Stella always complained that he made the bed a mess, and while they were together, he'd just laughed and said, 'you sleep there, too'. It was one of the little arguments she never let go; he never let her win. Should have just let her... _fuck._ Win.

 

He'd seen how much neater her bed stayed without him in their-room-now-her-room. He slept in the guest room. He'd stayed there until it became _his_ room, though he hated it, hated what it represented. Hated how his sleepless nights left his bed so tussled, from the rolling and kicking and itching that kept him awake, when every time he got a glance through the door he knew she must sleep _fine._ Their beds said it all, so he took that away.

 

Slept under just one blanket, which he could fold up to the foot of his bed, giving his the appearance that he never messed it up. Ray feels this illusion is ironic, in its own way.

 

 _Ten o five, ten o five_. Finally, Ray crawls onto the floor, forsaking even a pillow. He'll wake up early, he thinks, in two hours. In two hours he can crawl back into bed and Fraser will never know anything is wrong. The clock face isn't visible at this angle, so Ray doesn't agonize about how long he lays there, remembering he forgot to brush his teeth and vainly trying to get up the will to fix that.

 

"Ray." The first repetition of his name - guy voice, not girl voice, not _Stella_ voice - is what wakes him. It's a vague sort of awake. The 'go-away-I-was-sleeping-like-I-haven't-in-years' sort of just barely conscious that Ray hasn't experienced in - well, _years_.

 

His arm's asleep and his eyes are closed, lids heavy. His cheek is mashed into his bicep, and his ribs spring to complaints about the hard surfaces, but there is some part of his mind that is so deeply relieved by the thought ' _I slept',_ that he just won't open his eyes and accept that it's over.

 

"Ray."

 

That voice again. His name again. Not Dad-voice, either, even if he knows for sure he's not sleeping on a winnebago floor. He has to go through the ' people who wanted Ray to wake up' checklist.

 

"Ray."

 

Again. _Oh,_ Ray realizes, without yet opening his eyes. _Fraser_ voice. Motel room. Dragon - slash - crocodiles in the sewer. _Right._

 

He opens his eyes to his dose of morning Mountie, and Fraser looks just as made as Ray's unslept in bed. Concerned, though. Ray can see the whole 'why are you sleeping down here' question begin to form, and has to deflect faster than he would have liked.

 

"Fraser," he answers at last, then, almost nonsensically, "Coffee."

 

It's not what the Mountie is expecting, and puts Fraser off just enough to get him to skip the twenty questions routine. Score one for morning-Ray.

 

"Certainly, Ray." Fraser says, sounding distant and distracted, before he disappears back out of the room. Ray takes a moment to yawn himself awake, then gathers the spare blanket back together, throwing it on top of his bed before Fraser comes back with a cup of coffee and passes it to Ray.

 

By some unspoken agreement, they both settle on the floor beside the bed and lean back against it. Dief hops up on top and stretches out.

 

"You buy all this - this supernatural stuff, Fraser?" Ray asks, holding his coffee cup between both hands. The coffee - even though it's cheap motel coffee - somehow tastes fantastic. Fraser had worked some kind of magic on it.

 

"Well, Ray," Fraser says, his legs bent at the knees and his arms curled loosely around them, his hands together. It's an honesty pose - but everything about Fraser is honest. "There are times in my life and situations that have arisen that have proven - to me at least - that sometimes it is better to extend belief."

 

Ray thinks about those words, lifting the cup to his mouth, and he figures - yeah, even without the whole dragon thing, he's seen some unexplainable things in his life. Some wonderful, some terrible. More, since he'd started working with Fraser. But that seemed to be what was special about the Mountie - not that he himself was the cause of so many unusual things. It was more that Fraser was just so tuned in, so somehow aware of the world. Maybe that was a little supernatural on its own.

 

Fraser would never admit it.

 

"Yeah," Ray answers, and smiles in spite of himself. "Yeah, I guess that's right. I've seen some weird things, too."

 

"Not to say, of course, that one should always go for the fantastic explanation, or the 'easiest' one," Fraser begins. Ray cuts him off.

 

"Yeah, of course. I'm not going to go for vampires first - I mean, there is that whole occultist razor thing."

 

"Ockham's Razor."

 

"That's what I sad," Ray agrees, and Fraser looks like he might say something, before dismissing whatever it is he's about to say.

 

The silence that stretches between them is comfortable enough for Ray to smile into it. He likes that - like the fact that when they work, it's _effortless._ He doesn't need to think too much, just lets everything be natural.

 

"So what do we do about it, partner?" Ray asks, letting what's been jamming him up out at last, effortlessly because he can tell _Fraser_ if he can tell anyone.

 

The change in topic is so abrupt, Fraser doesn't immediately have an answer. He looks sideways, scratches his chin, and then looks up to answer.

 

"I did _mean_ my offer, Ray."

 

"What do we do now, assuming I accept?" Ray squints one eye closed, as if appraising the situation.

 

"Oh."

 

"-I mean we were kind of in a rush-"

 

"-of course, Ray. Perhaps a slower course of action is more-"

 

"-and I'm not sure I can handle going that fast-"

 

"-advisable-"

 

"-but I'm thinking we give it another-"

 

"- am of course, willing to accept whatever terms of courtship-"

 

" _Courtship?_ Fraser, I'm asking you to kiss me."

 

"Understood." Fraser hesitates, obviously letting his mind catch up with the conversation. He closes his mouth and looks thoughtful. Ray arches his brows, waiting.

 

"Now?" Fraser asks, obliviously, only then seeming to realize what it was Ray was implying. It's a very Fraser moment, but he seems to realize that asking was unnecessary.

He leans, turning to face Ray, who follows him with his eyes. He hesitates, then closes the distance. Coffee cup still in his hands, Ray meets him halfway by leaning too.

 

Their mouths meet and at first Ray worries - realizing _shit,_ he probably tastes like coffee and just being awake, before he realizes it'd be far from the worst thing Fraser had ever tasted. Hell, if it was the worst thing he put in his mouth _today_ , it would be an unusually good day for Fraser.

 

Fraser parts their mouths a little, reaches out to take Ray's coffee cup out of his hand and without moving too far away sets it some place it won't get knocked over.

 

He looks back up after doing so and Ray's hit full force with Fraser's overwhelming sincerity. The Mountie sometimes seems a bit distant but now he is _right there_ all the way. Just him and Ray and they are both there together.

 

He realizes that Stella had never looked at him like this, that there had always been some mask over her expression. She'd always held part of herself in reserve like she needed something of her own. Like she was always ready to let him go, and protect herself from anything she might feel by doing so.

 

Fraser was the opposite - in, of course, a Fraser way. He did hide some of himself - or he tried to, but either he wasn't very good at it - and it would be about the only thing that Fraser wasn't good at - or he just didn't try too hard around Ray.

 

He wants to say something, he realizes, but a low thudding stops him. He realizes someone's' knocking on the door. Time to go trudge around in sewers looking for dragons, he guesses.

-

 

When they return to the sewer, this time they go in through a manhole over a drainage basin. Ray had gotten the maps from city planning that morning, when he'd called Welsh to tell him what he and Fraser were up to for the day. He's glad that this terrible motel has a fax machine, even if they did charge something close to highway robbery for its use.

 

"Here, this is where you were," he points out to Dean. "It's the flood reservoir for DuPage county, east. Plenty of room in there, you're right. This thing _is_ smart."

 

"At least as smart as any animal," Sam agrees. "Even out here it's taking a risk, though."

 

"Well," Fraser begins, before Ray taps him on the shoulder and passes him a short length of rope which the Mountie passes under the little lift bar on the manhole cover and knots. Ray takes the other end. "Animals often have large territory requirements. With fewer and fewer unpopulated areas, they're forced-"

 

"On three, Ben-"

 

"-to have their territories extend into less desirable, i.e. populated, areas-"

 

"-two, three!" Ray finishes counting and they both haul back on the rope, levering the cover up and out of the hole. The cover is heavier than he anticipates, and he's glad it's Fraser pulling with him when it clatters over instead of jus t slamming back into place. It also makes an unholy racket.

 

"It's a matter of survival, really," Fraser concludes, barely even winded while Ray pants for breath. The guy never even loses his train of thought.

 

"So you're saying that - what, like wolves and coyotes in the city, we might start to see more of these now?" Dean asks, testing his flashlight and looking over the map again.

 

"Possibly. I can only imagine that something that big would have an equally large territory," Fraser says, and slings the sack with Ray's lamp in it over his shoulder to begin climbing down the ladder.

 

"I do not even want to think that there may be more than one of these things." Ray says, shaking his head. He hoped it was just a one-off freak of nature thing and they could just kill it and be done with it. He doesn't have a 'man-in' flag for the manhole, so he puts up a plastic road flare with his precinct and badge number written on the back - to keep sanitation workers from putting the cover back on, if any came by.

 

"Well," Sam says, with a shrug, "had to come from somewhere, so it's a safe bet there is more than one."

 

"Yeah, yeah," Ray replies irritably, and starts down the big iron staples that form the ladder. "Which came first, the dragon or the egg?"

-

 

It's almost too quiet, Dean thinks - either the thing is gone, or its waiting for them. He's not sure which one he should hope for. He'd skipped the lance this time. He'd tried to get ahold of Cas and arrange for a loan of the angel's sword, but ultimately he'd had to just settle for the biggest hunting knife they had. Sam was armed with the demon slaying knife. It probably wouldn't do any good against dragons, but it couldn't hurt to try for any advantage they could get. Dean was ready to start hurling holy water and silver bullets at this point.

 

"So, uh, what do we do if we find it?" Vecchio asks quietly from the back, where he and Fraser are keeping a sharp eye out for ambush. Dean looks up from the map and glances around at the otherwise empty sewers.

 

"We look for a weak spot and go for it," he says, remembering the only thing that had seemed to hurt it. "Shooting it is no good, unless you get it in the eye or something, maybe. But I did mange to stab it in the wing joint. Guess that's why the bladed weapons and lances were the thing."

 

"Right," Sam extrapolates, "targeted strikes on the joints and in the mouth if you can."

 

"Ah," Fraser says, and Dean remembers the guy is unarmed. Probably the detective only has his gun. Dean shakes his head, and stops planning for something he doesn't think is going to happen.

 

"I think it's gone, though. It'd be on high alert after last night and if it was going to attack us, it'd have done it by now. If you see it, just keep the light on it and Sam and I will do the rest," Dean says.

 

They enter the area - the emergency flood reservoir, he guesses - and tension practically crawls up his spine as Fraser begins to sweep the lamp around. They find nothing.

 

"You sure this is where the lair was?" Sam asks, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of dripping water. He's turned his flashlight upward, as if he expects the thing to be hanging from the ceiling like a bat.

 

"Are there any other places that look just like this in walking distance?" Dean asks back, handing Sam the map so he can see with his own eyes.

 

"Well if it lived here, it did a good job of cleaning up for itself," Vecchio observes, finding nothing in the water. It seems like the level is lower than yesterday, with maybe half an inch running over the rough cement floor and down the exit pipes.

 

"I think I've found something, Ray," Fraser calls, his voice carrying oddly from one side of the chamber to the other.

 

"It's not another skin, is it?" Ray sounds disgusted at the prospect, and Dean agrees. He'd seen enough of the last one.

 

"A partial one, and the area it appears to have slept," Fraser explains. He's set the lamp up on a raised lip of concrete, and Dean directs his flashlight onto the Mountie's hands as he approaches. He's holding up a thick, rubbery strip of shed skin.

 

"Augh, Fraser, _don't_ -" Vecchio begins, but Fraser is already lifting the thing to smell it. The sight of it that close to Fraser's mouth makes Dean wish he'd skipped breakfast. Defensively, he holds a hand over his own nose like he could ward off the smell he anticipates.

 

"Very recently shed," Fraser says, and stretches it out to reveal that it's a wing - that explains why they hadn't been attached to the other skin.

 

"Nobody'd find that up here," Ray says, glancing around the immediate area. Dean follows his gaze. The slab appears to be worn smooth by occupancy, and parts of the wall look shiny - and on closer inspection, Fraser proclaims it to be evidence of 'rubbing'.

 

"You see, when a snake sheds its skin it snags the loose old skin on a rock or bit of bark to help itself pull free. Lizards usually just scratch the skin off - that's why snake skins are mostly whole when they're shed." Fraser explains, rubbing the goo off his fingers.

 

"So why, uh - why doesn't this thing just scratch it off, too?" Vecchio asks, pulling some kleenex out of his jacket pocket and offering it to Fraser, who accepts after splashing in the water a little to get the worst of it off.

 

"I'm not certain, Ray."

 

Dean thinks of the broken claw he'd found in the water the previous day, and the bullets ricocheting off the thing's hide.

 

"I think the skin's too hard to scratch off until it starts decomposing," Dean says, and straightens up. Sam's swept the rest of the chamber and comes back, shrugging. Apparently there was nothing else to see.

 

"I don't think it lived here very long," Sam says, taking in the small evidence of habitation Fraser had found.

 

"I think you're right," Fraser agrees, thinking. "Maybe it just came looking for a damp, private place to shed in."

 

"So - what, it's all over? That's it?" Ray asks him. "What do we tell Welsh?"

 

"Well, the truth, Ray." Fraser says, diplomatically. He continues to explain as by mutual agreement everyone packs up and begins to head back out. "That we have thoroughly searched a reasonable area and found no further signs of a living crocodile."

 

Ray looks at Fraser like he's grown another head. Dean's pretty surprised, too - even an omissive truth like that seemed like something Fraser would never go for.

 

"In certain cases - especially one like this one, I believe there is an old American adage that applies. 'What the lieutenant doesn't know won't kill him.'" Fraser explains for himself, gesturing with one hand and holding the other behind himself. "And in this case, I think explaining ourselves in full would cause more problems than it might solve."

 

"You're right, Frayz," Ray chuckles, and pats the Mountie on the shoulder with affectionate surprise. "I think the only fire-breathing we'd see would come out of-"

 

"Shh!" Dean says, holding up a hand behind him and drawing up short in the tunnel. He thought he heard - something. Ahead of them in the tunnel, a light shines across an intersection. Dean freezes.

 

The light sweeps along the tunnel floor, reflecting against the deeper stream of water running in the channel between walkways. Then it pauses - Dean's heart starts to hammer as it turns slowly around the corner toward them - and then he realize he's being an idiot. It's just a flashlight beam.

 

"Hey!" A voice challenges from behind the light source. "What are you guys doing down here?"

 

"Chicago PD!" Ray answers, going for his badge as the man approaches - and it's just a guy in waders and gloves. "We're down here investigating a possible crocodile infestation."

 

The guy laughs and shakes his head. "You cops believe everything you hear on the news?"

 

"Well, better safe than sorry. And the locals like to see us looking into things, you know - like we take reports seriously."

 

"Well, I been clearing rocks out of drains all day," the worker says, demonstratively holding up an armload of rocks in a milk crate. "Haven't seen any crocs, giant or otherwise. No offense, though, guys - if I do see one, I'd rather call Steve Irwin."

 

"Yeah, well, think you'd need a spirit medium, buddy." Dean says, anxious to be on the way. "You haven't seen anything weird down here at all, huh?"

 

"No, sir," the man says, shifting his grip on the crate - must be heavy, Dean thinks. "'Course I don't get down this section but maybe once every two weeks."

 

"Alright, well - thanks man. I'll let you get back to - uh, it," Dean says. "Be careful down here. You never know."

 

"Sure will," the worker nods, humoring Dean. He heads along his way, lugging his crate. Ray and the others start moving again, but something nags at Dean's conscience. He doesn't know if he likes the idea of this guy moving around down here with no way to know what else lurks in the dark with him.

 

It's probably better that he doesn't, though.


	9. Chapter 9

Ray has no idea what to say on the way back so he says nothing. He had to agree that it looked like the dragon - and how crazy was it that he was thinking that with less and less reluctance - had cleared out. Like Fraser said, maybe it had only been there to shed or whatever.

 

"So what do we, uh, do?" he asks Dean, as they all get out of the GTO,

 

Dean shrugs and looks over at his Impala, measuring the amount of time it'll take to repair, Ray guesses.

 

"I don't think it's your problem anymore," Dean says. "We'll keep ears to the ground, see if it starts making trouble anywhere else. We're kind of on a bigger job right now, so we can't exactly stick around, but if you guys hear anything suspicious - you know the kind of suspicious I mean - you give us a call at this number."

 

"Do I even want to know how you guys got a Langley prefix on this number?" Ray asks, taking the card Dean hands him and looking at the number.

 

"The X-Files are real," Dean says with a straight face. Ray would hate to play these guys at poker.

 

"Yeah, whatever." Ray tucks the card into his pocket anyway. He and Fraser have seen some things that might even stump these guys. "I'm still not sure I like it but I know what I saw, and I like knowing somebody at least is after that thing."

 

"That's why we do it." Dean says and he and his brother head back to their room. Personally, Ray hopes he never has to call them. He turns around to Fraser who appears to be glancing at the Hotel Regulations board.

 

"Ray, it appears we missed checkout time," Fraser tells him as he approaches. Ray groans, but can't bring himself to feel too bad about it. "They'll bill us for another night. I'm sorry, Ray."

 

"So we stay another night," Ray shrugs. "I can't say I mind the chance to shower after the day we had."

 

Fraser seems like he might be about to try and argue, but he lets it drop. Ray only wishes he could convince Fraser to wear normal clothes more often. Even if Ray's are a little to small for him - and now, filthy.

 

"We deserve a break anyway, Fraser - at least long enough to shower and sleep." Ray says, slinging an arm around the mountie's shoulder. "It seems like it'd be awkward to have to invite him in, so he leads instead.

 

"If you say so, Ray," Fraser agrees. Diefenbaker tears out of the room like his tail is on fire when Ray opens the door.

 

"I told you not to drink so much soda," Fraser tells the wolf as Dief makes for the nearest bush posthaste.

 

Dief puts his ears back and looks exasperated as he relieves himself. He doesn't help his argument when he belches on the way back through the door.

 

"Honestly, you have no self restraint." Fraser chides. Dief makes a Dief noise in response, as Fraser closes the door. "You don't smell that wonderful either, you know. I think you could use a shower after yesterday, too."

 

Diefenbaker trots into the bathroom and hops into the tub, waiting. Ray swears to god, maybe the wolf is a ghost in a dog's body or something. Maybe he should ask Dean about it sometime, except he's pretty sure he doesn't want to _know._

 

"Sorry, Ray," Fraser says, giving a disapproving look to the wolf. "I think he's trying to prove a point."

 

"That's okay, Fraser. I can share with Dief."

 

This gets him an odd look from the Mountie and the wolf, both. He likes it when he can surprise them like that. Before Fraser can argue, he shuts himself in the bathroom.

 

Diefenbaker scoots out of thew way of the spray when Ray turns it on, and stays out of it until Ray gets it to be warm. The wet dog smell that begins to radiate off Diefenbaker makes Ray feel he's made the correct decision. He divides the trial shampoo between him and Dief, leaving about a third in the bottle for Fraser. With the wolf appropriately scrubbed, and Ray just behind him on the 'to clean' list, both just enjoy the warm shower for a few extra minutes.

 

"I know you're all clean," Ray warns, making sure Dief is looking at him, "but don't shake off everywhere and stay off the bed until you're dry."

 

It feels odd talking to the wolf, but it seems to work a little when Fraser does it. He puts a towel on the floor for Diefbaker to roll himself dry on, and works on himself. This feels - almost normal. Something's missing, though. Ray would have liked Fraser to join them.

 

Giving a dog a bath. Seemed pretty mundane. Next time, though, Fraser would be invited. He doesn't mind the idea. He won't feel like such an idiot if Fraser is talking to Dief, too.

 

 

Ray pulls on his sleep pants, and when he opens the door Fraser is sitting politely in the hotel's chair, waiting. Ray'd thought he would at least turn on the T.V. or something, but he looks lost in thought instead. Like he was maybe thinking about the same stuff Ray was - well, kinda. He doubts Fraser is thinking about Fraser.

 

"Benton," he says, affectionately, and Fraser looks over. They both smile and dief makes an impatient noise and muscles by Ray, leaving a wolf-shaped wet patch on his leg. Ray doesn't mind, because Dief behaves himself and stays off the bed.

 

"We left you some hot water, if you wanted a shower," Ray says, and Fraser looks appreciative. Ray sees he's already taken off his boots, which are lined up neatly by the door and somehow clean already. It's only that which makes Ray realize Fraser is really going to stay. More than stay, if Ray wants him to. Possibly, Fraser will stick by him as long as Ray wanted him to - and that's a good feeling. It's the one _he_ always tried to give Stella, but maybe she never understood.

 

Maybe she never wanted it.

 

Fraser has to get really close to get by Ray, who's still standing in the bathroom doorway. While he's turned sidelong and starting to press past Ray, Ray pushes his hand s out to trap Fraser against the opposite side of the doorway, gently.

 

"Yes, Ray?" Fraser asks, holding still. Ray can feel him breathing, his heartbeat, the curls of his breath against his own damp skin. It's an electric feeling, something Ray hasn't felt - well it was only a few nights ago, he guesses, but he'd felt it then too. Magnetism, like he and Fraser were drawn together. Ray leans across the short inches and kisses Fraser, who still looks surprised by it.

 

Maybe _Ray_ should be surprised, too. But it turns out, he just doesn't care. Maybe he should be freaking out, but it's never really bothered him - people love who they love, and what matters is if the other person is right for them. So, maybe if women worked out like Stella any-way, who cared about gender? If Fraser didn't, maybe Ray doesn't have to, either.

 

Fraser's hands come up to rest on Ray's bare shoulders, and when the kiss finishes they just stand together for a moment. Fraser is looking at him, putting together a question.

 

"Why were you sleeping on the floor this morning, Ray?" Fraser asks, and Ray doubts he can throw Fraser off the question this time. It's just so odd, and it seems almost minor to Ray by now, but he knows it's weird.

 

"It's easier for me to sleep that way now," Ray finally confesses, because Fraser could deal with weird. "I mean, I don't sleep much anyway, but in a bed I wake up every few minutes reaching for _her_."

 

The concern on Fraser's features is clear and Ray rushes to continue, not wanting to sound like he's whining or trying to get sympathy.

 

"It's just a _thing_ , Fraser. It's not that bad to sleep on the floor." Ray defends himself. He finds himself leaning closer to Fraser, maybe to avoid having the Mountie see right through him. like he appeared to be doing now.

 

"You don't deserve to sleep on the floor, Ray." Fraser says, gently. His hands slide up Ray's shoulders, up his neck, and come to rest just under either side of his chin. "I'm sorry you still feel like you have to punish yourself."

 

Ray likes the contact. Likes Fraser's steadying presence and the way he always seems to be listening, even if Ray doesn't think what he's saying is important. Sometimes he likes the way he doesn't even have to say _anything_ for Fraser to understand him. Right now, though, he feels like he just got kicked in the teeth.

 

"I'm not-" he starts, but he knows better. _Fraser_ knows better too, somehow. Ray stops himself, and sighs. He leans into Fraser, gets filthy all down his bare chest, but he doesn't care. Fraser makes Ray feel like he's _worth_ something again. Like he can stop just existing and go back to _living._

 

"I always thought those guys who would mope around in movies after their wives left them were pathetic," Ray tells Fraser's neck. Fraser slides fingers through his hair and Ray loves that feeling, wet hair springing back after it's been pushed against the grain. "The guys that'd do anything, _be_ anything, just to get a girl back. The guys who waited around forever for them to change their mind."

 

"I used to think that was so unreal, you know? That when it was over, that's it. You just moved on." He laughs a little, feels like an idiot, but confesses it anyway. "And then I lived it. And I'm _still_ waiting, Fraser. Maybe trying to be someone else just so she'll notice me again, give myself a second chance. A whole new Ray, a whole new _start..."_

 

 _"I_ noticed you, Ray," Fraser tells him.

 

"Yeah, and thank god for that," Ray says, filthy and freshly showered and standing in a motel bathroom doorway, hugging a Mountie.

 

"Thank god for that," he repeats, because it bears repeating. "C'mon Frayz, let's take a shower."

 

Fraser has the sense not to argue that Ray's just had one.

-

 

Dean's not sure what wakes him up. He doesn't wake up violently, just wakes up like something is out of place. As his eyes focus on the clock - which reads a worrisome 5:04 am - he slides his hand further under his pillow and wraps his fingers around the grip of his Colt.

 

He can hear Sam still sleeping - the kid snores a little, and Dean was used to the sound. It doesn't jive with the feeling he has that eyes are on him. It might be Castiel, but Dean knows he's better off safe than sorry. Beneath the pillow he feels for the safety, and then clicks it off. He's about to sit up suddenly and use it to menace - _whatever_ it is that's snuck in on them when the bedside lamp clicks on suddenly, blinding Dean. He raises his arm to try and shield his eyes.

 

"What the hell-" he grows, hearing Sam sit up into sudden awakeness, too.

 

"Dean?" Sam asks.

 

"Not so awesome when I do it to _you_ is it?" A third voice asks, and Dean quickly points his gun in the direction it's coming from.

 

A man is sitting patiently in the crappy chair by the crappy hotel table. He's not making any threatening move - yet -so Dean holds off shooting until his eyes finish adjusting to the light

 

Only then he recognizes the sewer maintenence worker, sitting like he belongs here with his hands folded in his lap.

 

"What the hell?" Dean reiterates, with more feeling this time. "Who are you and why are you in our hotel room?"

 

"You came into _my_ residence first," the man says, hands folded in his lap. "Usually one extends an invitation back, after being so forward."

 

"You're a _shifter_ , " Sam says, while Dean just stares blankly. Yeah that seems right. Dean lifts his gun again, glad he packs silver.

 

"Wrong," the man says, looking off to one side as if he was bored. "But if you forgot what happened last time, by all means - shoot me. Good luck explaining to your cop friends, or the hotel management for that matter."

 

Dean keeps the gun in his hand. It at least makes him _feel_ better. It takes his mind a long moment to try and process what the man had said, around trying to figure out how he'd found them at the hotel and _why_.

 

"What are you saying you're a-" he begins, wondering if he's crazy for asking or the guy is crazy instead.

 

"Dragon, yes," the man says, seriously. He seems to know the effect it'll have because he waits with an air of ancient patience.

 

"Dude," Sam says sounding half-tired but still disbelieving. "Could have fooled me."

 

It seems to be the expected answer. The man stands up, which makes Dean draw the gun. He doesn't appear armed but they stuff they usually deal with? Dean knows that doesn't matter. He makes a slow approach though, unthreatening. He stands over Dean and looks down, silent and still. He looks emotionless, stern and ferocious at the same time.

 

Recognition sparks unbidden in Dean. He remembers, with no conscious effort, looking up into one cold, reptilian eye in the instant before the dragon could have killed him. The feeling of being sized, measured. This is - uncomfortably identical.

 

"It's him," he finds himself verifying. The man eases back, the full pressure of his presence seems to ebb away. "Somehow."

 

"I wear a glamour to pass undetected among you," the man says, offhandedly. He returns to the chair and settles himself. "It's demeaning, but effective. I suppose if it works for angels and demons-"

 

"What, you mean it's a _host_?" Dean asks, furious at the thought. It was bad enough that angels and demons already did whatever they wanted.

 

"No," the man explains, steepling his fingers. "Merely a magical illusion. I based myself on the Roman emperor, Trajan. At the time - a tribute. Now, merely convenient."

 

The dragon is tall, but shorter than Sam, with closely cut hair and a strong, clean-shaven face that speaks of early middle-age. It's charactered, Dean guesses, if you'd use that to indicate deeply set expression lines.

 

"Okay. We believe you," Dean says, because he has no idea what Roman emperors have to do with human shaped dragons sitting in his room while he was trying to sleep. "What are you doing here?"

 

"Why didn't I skip town after I caught you snooping around, you mean?" the dragon asks, leaning comfortably. Dean feels aware that he's just wearing his jeans and is half-covered by a flimsy sheet. He paws around the floor to recover his t-shirt.

 

"I intended to," the dragon continues, watching Dean with a lazily-uninterested expression. "But I did some checking up on you boys first. _Winchesters_. Your father killed someone I cared about very much."

 

Dean freezes, pulling his shirt on halfway. "So - is this a revenge thing, or what?

The man shakes his head, with a vaguely amused expression. "No. The sins of the father - but I know your family has an overzealous case of persistence."

 

Dean pulls his shirt the rest of the way on and rests his gun into his lap. Sam has his gun ready behind him. Asking questions is getting Dean nowhere, so he figures he'll let the guy do some damn explaining.

 

"I'm here to tell you to back off. Let it go. Hunting me is not your job," the man says, folding his hands together like he's about to be in for the long haul. "I haven't killed anyone - well, outside of self-defense. That's a feeling _you_ aren't strangers to, as hunters.

"So if you can hide as a human, why were you all dragoned out in the sewer?" Dean protest, not liking being compared to something society classifies as a monster.

 

"Shedding. The ideal place is a cave with an underground lake or stream, but all of those are major tourist attractions these days, with tours going through every hour on the hour." The dragon shakes his head in disgust. "And as technology advances, it gets harder for me to move between countries, or hide. So I make do with what I have."

 

Dean thinks about those thing the Mountie had said, about animals having to shift territory in order to survive, overlapping more and more with humans.

 

"So if you guys can hide like this, I mean, there's going to be more incidents like this or - I mean, tensions are going to start to go up again?"

 

The dragon shakes his head. "There are only a few, now. Five that I'm aware of. Some hide themselves so long they forget what they are. Perhaps there are one or two like that which I do not know of."

 

"If dragons are real," Sam starts to ask a question and receives a withering look in response - holding up his hands placatingly, he continues, "And the legends about slaying them are true, where's all the evidence? Bones, leather, suits of dragon hide armor?"

 

The man laughs and shakes his head, looking away, upset. "Only humanity. You realize your own lack of strength and steal it from others instead, regardless of cost. May I use your shower? I've been in the sewer all day."

 

The absurdity of the request knocks Dean off his train of thought for a moment. He'd recognized the signs of evasion in the request, but - well he could smell it, now that the dragon mentioned it.

 

"What? No." Is Dean's first response, but the dragon is already getting to his feet, moving for the open bathroom door. Dean gets up to stop him.

 

"He does reek, Dean," Sam says.

 

"We are not going to let some - some strange _dragon_ use our bathroom!" Dean protests, but the dragon is already _in_ it.

 

"Hey what part of 'no means no' do you not understand?" Dean says, chasing him into the bathroom as the shower curtain rattles closed. Dean's not sure if shooting this guy - dragon - is worth it, just to stop him from taking a bath. He has no damn idea how this 'glamour' thing or whatever works, but if he's still impervious to bullets, Dean could ricochet one right back into himself.

 

While he's deciding what to do the dragon steps into the closed off area behind the curtain, and begins to dump his clothing back out, letting it drop on the floor before the water turns on.

 

"So who are you?" Dean asks, not sure what to do. There was a naked dude-dragon in the same room as him, and that was frigging weird, but the other option was to just leave him alone in here. "Why didn't you answer my brother's question?"

 

"I'm Horowitz - or I have been recently enough for it to matter and suit me, " the dragon says, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of the shower. Dean pushes the door closed and leans against it. There is quiet for a minute - likely soap or shampoo being taken advantage of. "As for your brother's question - all of our bodies, when we die, decompose as quickly and completely as the skin I shed."

 

Dean considers that. Evidence now told him that dragons were real, and if they always had been, this explanation for why nothing remained as evidence of that made as much sense as any.

 

"Why?" Dean asks.

 

Seemingly done with his shower, the water shuts off. Horowitz claims both the towels off the bar, and has the decency to wrap one around his waist before he emerges.

 

"Our bodies are too proud to be trophies." Horowitz is toweling out his hair, enthusiastically. He pauses, making an appreciative noise as he scrubs the cotton over his face roughly. "They decompose quickly and completely - and nothing can preserve them."

 

He passes the towel with vigor over his shoulders, shaking into the motion with a sinuous, animal grace. Dean almost laughs, except he remembers how much power that same motion had behind it when he'd seen Horowitz crawl out of the water and shake himself off, just two nights ago. Having witnessed Horowitz's unglamoured - or whatever - form, any duplicity of behaviors lost their novelty.

 

"But of course, it was virtuous to slay a dragon." Horowitz fishes through the laundry pile shoved in one corner of the bathroom, tweezing individual clothing items between his thumb and forefinger and discarding them after a few delicate sniffs.

 

"Hey." Dean starts, as the dragon pulls a t-shirt from the pile and begins to slide into it - but it's one of Sam's, some kind of atrocity from Hollister. Horowitz doesn't seem all that pleased with it, either. He pulls it away from his body by the hem and stares down at it in disbelief. "Yeah, keep it."

 

"Anyway, we were wiped out."

 

"All but you, anyway. And you said there were others."

 

"Survivors. Methuselahs like me." He loops the towel around his waist, and considers the personal care products by the sink. He settles on the hotel toothpaste. "None of us have been born since the dark ages."

 

"What? Why? No girls left, or?"

 

Horowitz's mouth stretches out into a frank line. He shakes his head, once, and avoids the rest of the subject by brushing his teeth - with his index finger. A look of bliss crosses his features, and Dean's pretty sure he can sympathize with his delight at being clean - he's had days where he's come home disgusting, too. Never quite 'swam through a river of sewage' disgusting.

 

When he starts rinsing his mouth, Dean realizes he isn't going to get an answer. Dean can live with that - he's not sure he really wanted an answer to that question now that his mind had caught up to his mouth. Who knew what kind of weird shit was involved in dragon mating rituals or whatever.

 

"We get one bit of bad press." Horowitz looks at himself in the mirror, head angled down. Dean recognizes the look, like someone totally exhausted by every aspect of his life. "One mention that a dragon is Lucifer's ultimate vessel-"

 

"Wait, what?" Dean says, suddenly paying attention more sharply than before.

"Our effective extinction coincides with the advent of the printing press." The dragon answers, cryptically, meeting the gaze of Dean's reflection. "Do you know what the first printed book was?"

 

A sudden whush of air behind Dean alerts him to the new arrival. He shifts forward - two people - bodies - whatever - made the bathroom crowded. Cas's arrival makes Dean feel downright cozy, and when he turns his uncomfortable glance on Castiel, a belated remembrance of Dean's definition of his own personal space dawns vaguely on the angel's features. He steps into the currently unoccupied bath tub, and then suddenly seems to realize the other presence in the room.

 

Horowitz, for his part, isn't freaking out. In fact, his head is canted to one side, expression intense. Castiel barely glances at him, before his gaze drops to one side, and he starts talking gruffly in the direction of the tub faucet.

 

"It's a common misconception that it was the Guttenburg Bible, but the Chinese and the Koreans had block printing and metal typeface much earlier - _as you should know_." At last, he lifts his eyes and meets Horowitz's, but just for an instant, before he's looking at Dean.

 

For a long moment Horowitz is silent, measuring., as if he could discern something from Castiel's profile. Whatever it is he's seeing , he doesn't seem to expect it. And _yeah_ , Dean thinks, _angel in the bath tub, that's a little odd._ But really, not any odder than giant crocodile-dragon-thing wearing a human skin and a towel in the same bathroom.

 

"Castiel?" the dragon asks at last, and now it's Dean's turn for a long, stunned silence.

 

"You _know_ this guy?" Dean bursts out, when the quiet reaches an uncomfortable length.

 

"We've me," Castiel says, succinctly.

 

"Anyway." Horowitz seems to want to change the subject as quickly as Castiel does. Both of them pointedly avoid looking at each other. "The Jikji may have been printed first, but my point has more effect when I say the Guttenburg Bible - with one line - killed us."

 

Dean's mind has to seriously backtrack from 'wow, Cas actually knows someone else' and 'wait, he has _history_?' to the dragon's earlier point. "Yeah, _yeah_ \- what did you mean 'ultimate vessel' exactly?"

 

"Revelations," Horowitz answers cryptically.

 

Dean is pretty sure that he is not the only person who has never _memorized the entire freaking bible_ , but between Bobby, Sam, Cas, and now a freaking dragon spouting off random references to it, he sure as hell feels that way. He stares pointedly until Cas realizes he doesn't get the reference.

 

"In Revelations," Castiel begins, just before Sam hammers on the door insistently.

 

"Are you guys _ever_ going to finish in there?"

 

Dean recognizes the 'I have to go so bad my eyeballs are floating' tone in his brother's voice.

 

"Yeah, alright, Sammy," Dean says, and swings the door open. Sam takes note of the amount of bodies in the room, and stands aside to let them file out with a curious expression, and Dean wonders why he hadn't just moved them into the main hotel room earlier. Possibly because Horowitz still hadn't put his pants on.

 

"So you two, uh, know each other?" Dean asks, as they arrange themselves. Horowitz is still looking at Cas like he has about a thousand private questions to ask, and Dean wishes he could be there to see them answered. He'd never felt curious about Castiel's history before, possibly because he hadn't realized Cas had one.

 

"Not recently," Horowitz answers cryptically.

 

Castiel says nothing at all on the subject, and that's interesting, in Dean's opinion. Sam emerges at last from the bathroom looking two gallons lighter, and sits down to join in on the discussion.

 

"Revelations twelve," Castiel says, before he continues surprisingly in English, instead of Latin or Enochian.

 

 

"And behold a great red dragon, having seven heads and ten horns, and seven crowns upon his heads.

 

And his tail drew the third part of the stars of heaven and did cast them to the earth: and the dragon stood before the woman which was ready to be delivered, for to devour her child as soon as it was born."

 

"And the great dragon was cast out," Horowitz interrupts, "That old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world. He was cast out unto the earth, and the angels were cast out with him."

 

"I was getting there," Castiel says. "You can't abridge a sacred text."

 

" _You_ can't," Horowitz corrects, and then turns his palms upward in a 'making peace' gesture. "But the text is pretty clear, even in Latin; _Et visum est aliud signum in cælo: et ecce draco magnus rufus habens capita septem_. I don't know any dragons with seven heads, but that could just be for effect."

 

"Well, if you argue that, it's possible to argue the whole dragon issue," Dean interjects at last, finding something to latch onto.

 

"When he first walked the earth," Horowitz answers, "before he was locked away in his seal, he twice used a dragon as a vessel."

 

"They can contain his corruption for longer than a human, though Sam is still more ideal," Cas agrees, moving

 

"Oh yeah, and why the hell is that?" Dean, upset

 

"I don't have a brother," Horowitz, "Or any surviving clutchmates, or blood relatives. No matching suit for Michael to ride."

 

"Why the hell does that matter so much, anyway?" Dean asks.

 

"Because it's the only way to make it permanent," Cas answers.

 

"You mean this could happen again?"

 

"As it has happened before," Castiel answers, "plunging our world from enlightenment back into the period known as the dark ages."

 

" _Both_ dark ages," Horowitz elaborates, which doesn't help Dean at all. Too much information, but none of it really helpful.

 

"I knew I saw the signs. But to see _you_ again, that worries me. It must be close," Horowitz continues, looking Castiel over. "These two are _the_ vessels?"

 

"Yes," Castiel answers, with a glance at Sam, then at Dean.

 

"Well I've seen the first act begun, but not the curtain. They must not have said 'yes' yet?"

 

Castiel shakes his head, looks away.

 

The dragon just laughs. He looks Dean over, and then Sam. The laughter subsides quickly into a smile.

 

"Good for you boys," Horowitz finishes, pleased. Dean is getting frustrated with the conversation already, feeling like he's a bystander in something that directly concerns him.

 

"Um, excuse me but what the hell does any of this have to do with you?" Dean says, as Horowitz seems to be winding up for another round of amused laurel-and-hardy routine with Castiel.

 

"You boys want a buy for this round," The dragon says, moving to one side of the room. Dean realizes he's still wearing just the towel, and finally just decides to sacrifice a pair of his own jeans just so he doesn't have to stare at the guy's legs any longer. "I get it. You know there's a way to shut this down, if you're not only very careful but also very lucky?"

 

"We somehow shove Lucifer back into the box," Dean answers, fishing around in his duffel bag for a pair of jeans he doesn't like too much. "Problem is, how? Fighting something like the devil, that's kind of above our paygrade. Last time we took on angels, they turned Castiel in to chunky soup and we wound up letting the damn devil out of hell."

 

Horowitz nods, catching the jeans when Dean throws them to him with a grateful look. They'll be a bit long on him, Dean guesses, but whatever. It's better than him being half naked. If Sam notices that the dragon is wearing his shirt, he doesn't say anything.

 

"What if you could get him into a vessel that could fight him - not forever, just long enough to carry him back into the cage?

 

"What?" Castiel objects, suddenly. Horowitz pays no mind, just negotiates the Jeans on carefully under the towel, before he discards the latter.

 

"We're not shoving Sam into some cage with the devil," Dean objects sharply.

 

"He's right, Dean," Sam argues, and it surprises Dean, or at least he thinks it does, but it infuriates him, too. After all these years fighting together, after all this time being a family - whatever shitty kind of family they were, anyway, Dean was _not_ going to give Sam up just to save himself.

 

"I mean, I have thought about it. If we can get the last ring, I think I can fight him off for just long enough. It would save a lot of people," Sam continues, as Dean feels his frown deepen. He does not want to hear this. This is exactly what they've been fighting to prevent, this whole time.

 

"The _only_ way to end this forever is for Michael to fight Lucifer," Castiel says, firmly. Insistently. "A victor must be declared. We can't avoid this, we can only hope that Michael is the winner."

 

"That's the answer I expected from you. Must be hard to work that out when most of the world is faithless," Horowitz answers. Castiel doesn't answer, and so the dragon continues. "Instead, we don't put your brother in the cage with the devil. I will take the burden, and _I_ will go willingly into the seal."

 

Dean is genuinely shocked. He looks at Sam, who is also staring in disbelief. It takes his mind a minute to catch up with what's happening, and he runs through what Horowitz just said once or twice more in his mind before he decides he needs a confirmation. He shifts his stance, like he could brace himself for this.

 

"You wanna run that by me again?"

 

"I'm more likely to be able to retain my own mind for long enough to make this work," Horowitz repeats, meeting Dean's stare. "So if I volunteer, and we all work together, we change fate."

 

"Um, I don't know you or anything, so maybe this is going to seem rude because maybe you do this sort of thing all the time," Dean begins, feeling like he's on guard because he has no idea where the hell this came from. "But why would you do that?"

 

"I live on Earth, too," Horowitz answers, but Dean knows it's not the whole story. "And I'm a firm believer in free will. When the planet is cleansed by angels for paradise, my kind will be among those found 'unworthy', because of our past associations with the Serpent. I haven' t survived this long just to be cast into purgatory for some war I have no other involvement in."

 

"That's-" Castiel begins to protest, then sinks into an unhappy silence, staring at Horowitz.

 

"Okay, but how do we do this?" Sam asks, sounding confused. Dean agrees.

 

"We'll figure it out. We'll need all the help we can get, though. You'd better get your associates from the Chicago PD before they book out this morning," Horowitz says. "And we'll move fast. Before word of the plan can get out."

 

He gestures at Dean, indicating he has something to talk about with him later, and that's it, Dean realizes. That's when the other shoe is probably going to drop. If it'll save Sam and the rest of the world, he can at least listen to what the guy wants in exchange for doing this. Hell, pretty much anything had to be a better deal than the one they'd been given now - which was halfassed anyway. How the hell did you squirm out of 'my way or the highway'?

 

Dean nods, seeing the signal, and gestures to Sam. "C'mon, Sam. Time to go break the bad news to Mountie and Hutch."


	10. Chapter 10

"So just, one more time," Ray says, as they move along an old stretch of abandoned highway, following Horowitz. The dragon has dropped his glamour, and moves sinuously - raised up, he doesn't look quite so odd, but it's still decidedly not what Dean expected. He looks like a stretched out crocodile, moves like one too, heaving each leg with muscular motions that propel him surprisingly quickly for a motion that looks so slow. "The apocalypse?"

 

"Yeah, man. End of the world. Angels come down from heaven, blow their horns, and everyone packs their bags for the big vacation," Dean says, feeling obvious and exposed. Horowitz is huge, and the area is so open and desolate that he can't help but keep craning his neck in every direction to make sure no one will possibly spot them.

 

"Why didn't you mention this before?" Ray asks, still sounding lost. Dean agrees - he wishes he could say it got better after months of living with it, but it really doesn't.

 

"Kind of seemed like a lot to dump in your lap, on top of you know 'dragons are real, and by the way watch out for vampires, Twilight's not as fun as it seems.'"

 

"But now all of a sudden we need to know?"

 

"Well, our plans have kind of suddenly changed, as you can see," Dean says, indicating the dragon leading them to an old overpass that's half grown wild with weeds.

 

Vecchio shakes his head like he's still trying to figure the situation out. He and Dean had been recruited for this 'errand' after the whole group had been brought up to speed and set on different tasks to get ready, to try and find a lead somewhere to get them in. The rest of the plan, Horowitz said, would depend on what happened, here.

 

"Sure. And I guess if Fraser and I can help, we really should. He probably wouldn't let us leave, even. Fraser's addicted to helping people," Vecchio answers, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He looks at the darkness under the bridge, where Horowitz has disappeared, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the change in light from blinding to shadowed before he continues.

 

Even if the dragon is on their side, it doesn't mean Dean wants to be too close to him when he looks like... _this_ , either. The thought of running into it makes him careful where he steps.

 

"It _is_ hard to take in," Ray says, looking into the darkness and waiting, probably for the same thing, or for Dean to take the first step. "But a lot of my life has been like that recently, I guess. Probably pretty bad of me to say this, but it being the apocalypse almost makes all that other shit a little easier to handle. There's an excuse for all the bad stuff, if the world's ending."

 

Dean's never thought about it like that. He's not sure it's right, but it makes its own kind of sense. "We aren't going to let it end," he reminds, as they both begin forward - he takes the first step, but Vecchio is only half an instant behind. He can see that Horowitz is waiting for them, silent, patient in his own way. "So turn your life around, I guess, 'cause you're going to need either a different excuse or a better life."

 

Rising up on his hind legs, Horowitz reaches out to an overhead ledge, extending his neck all the way back into the crevice. The object he retrieves - held carefully in his jaws - looks like nothing more than a roughly oval rock about twenty inches tall at it's longest. It's a dull gray with a rough surface, otherwise utterly unremarkable. With extreme care, he deposits it in Vecchio's hands, and begins to extend himself up again.

 

"A rock," Dean observes, and wonder if it's the dragon or him that's crazy.

 

Vecchio examines the object carefully, turning it in his hands and looking for any sign it might be anything but what it looked like. Even his thorough examination doesn't seem to turn anything up.

 

A second, identical object is placed in Dean's hands. The first thing he notices is that it's surprisingly light for its size and appearance. Horowitz looks at him seriously, reptilian eyes impressing the need to treat the object gently.

 

Dean has a second look at the object now that he's holding it and turns it carefully in his hands. It does nothing revealing. It's cold to touch, dry, and just a little dusty. Like the ort of rocks he'd used to skip on lakes as a kid.

 

"An egg," Horowitz corrects, raising his glamour and appearing human.

 

"You're kidding me, right?" Dean asks, suddenly not so sure he wants to be holding it. "It looks like a rock. And you said-"

 

"They're eggs. I've used magic to keep them from hatching - and to hide them," Horowitz cuts Dean off, reaching out to run his hand affectionately over the stony surface. In response, the egg in Dean's hands glows briefly gold with some strange inner light, revealing a milky colored and striated egg beneath the illusion of stone.

 

"So - what? Hooray, the species is saved?" Ray asks, looking skeptical. He's still holding the one he'd been handed, but has extended it away from his body a little.

 

"No," Horowitz says, eying them both until they get quiet enough for him to explain. "They are related - brothers. I won't allow them to hatch because they would be targets - just like you and your brother, Dean."

 

Beckoning them to follow him, Horowitz continues to explain while he leads the way back out. "So here are my terms. I say 'yes' to Lucifer, and you spring your trap - he and I plunge into the cage for all eternity. You keep your brother, and the apocalypse is again averted - until some other bonehead mortal springs him loose again."

 

"Yeah, and?" Ray prompts, but Dean thinks he sees where this is going.

 

"I die, the spell on the eggs breaks," Horowitz says, gesturing vaguely with his hands to encompass time passing. "And you raise the young."

 

"Whoa," Dean says, "Hey wait a minute, man. I don't know anything about raising a dragon."

 

"What's to know?" Feed it. Play with it. Protect it." Horowitz turns sharply to face the both of them. "Keep them apart. They're too tempting together. I'll teach you the magic to glamour them."

 

"So - what? We just raise your kids?" Ray asks, trying to hand the egg back to Horowitz.

 

"This is my deal," he says with finality, drawing himself up and making no move to take the egg back. "They are not mine, but belong to someone I loved once. You raise them and you protect them, or you solve your own apocalypse problem."

 

"Well, I guess - but I mean, what's it going to be, like a puppy?" Dean asks - not sure how this sort of thing works.

 

"It'll be like a baby," Ray says, sounding pretty certain. "I mean, look - this guy talks and looks like us. They gotta learn that somewhere."

 

Horowitz shakes his head and begins to walk on, apparently deeming the matter decided - and they'd just have to find out through experience. "I'll be in contact with some others I know. Castiel can help you, too."

 

"What?" Dean asks, trying to wrap his mind around the the thought. Every reminder of how truly ancient the angel is seems to take a while to sink in - but any thought that Cas had been friends with someone else seems too unlikely to be true.

-

 

 

The sound of squealing tires and frantically revving engines - the older kind, the muscle-car kind - greets Ray as he and Dean return to the hotel room. Dean peers around his shoulder when Ray stops short - the sight of two guys and an angel sitting on the couch watching a movie is something he's never seen before.

 

For now, he wasn't sure what to do about the egg, so he kept it bundled up safely in the trunk of the GTO. Dean had given him some kind of little bag-thing to hide it from - stuff that could see into locked trunks, Ray guesses.

 

"Whatcha watching?" Ray asks, stepping in when no one looks away to greet him. Cas and Fraser are both practically on the edges of their seats, but with way different expressions on their faces.

 

Sam, sitting somewhat awkwardly in the middle, shrugs his shoulders. "Some Steve McQueen movie-"

 

"Bullitt," Ray recognizes as a car flips over a barrier, crashing into a set of gas reservoir tanks and then exploding in a fireball roughly the size of the one at Hiroshima. He winces as McQueen pulls his car around in an over-the-median u-turn and almost puts the car in a ditch.

 

"Good movie," Dean agrees. By some kind of unspoken agreement, neither wants to talk about their sudden looming responsibilities. Ray figures they already got enough to worry about,a nd he'll figure out what he's going to do with a baby dragon later.

 

They settle in to watch the movie too. Ray's got no idea what kind of power Steve McQueen movies have over guys, but they always make _him_ feel better. The hotel couch is way too small for five bodies, so he and Fraser rearrange onto the floor, and lean against the foot of the couch.

 

Sometimes Ray wishes being a cop was like this - all car chases and clear lines between good and bad. Where the good guy had McQueen's handsome face and always got the girl. No crocodiles in sewers, no dragons, no apocalypse. He guesses, with enough shit in your life, even this could look simple.

 

He doesn't wish too hard though. Even with all the complications, he'd _had_ the girl and a life without the supernatural in it. Wasn't so great, he'd figured out. Even if it was the end of the world, he's glad it's Fraser he's sitting with.

 

McQueen puts two shots square in the center of the villain, and may as well have sent his career crashing in through all that glass instead. Then he goes home to the girl, puts his gun on the table - and looks at a stranger in the mirror. Ray knows the feeling - bets everyone in the room does. The movie ends there, in some kind of faux-poignant seventies film way, trying to express some kind of humanity trapped under the tough, dead to the world detective exterior.

 

Nobody who wasn't a detective - writers and directors included - would ever get that it didn't crush your soul, the work. It just taught you to set it aside. Some guys just found it easier to put it up forever and forget about it.

 

Ray used to wish he was like that some days, but right now he realizes even if it sucks, he'd rather not get stuck the other way.

 

The channel plays a few commercials and everyone stretches, the spell broken. Some quiet awkwardness ensues.

 

"You guys want a beer or something?" Dean asks and Ray turns off the TV as it announces that the McQueen marathon will continue after a brief commercial break.

 

"Nah," Ray says, stretching out. He's making excuse, but right now, sitting alone with Fraser sounds really good. "We should get some rest - long day, and another one tomorrow."

 

"And every day in the foreseeable future," Sam answers. "What did tall, dark, and scaly want from you guys, anyway?"

 

"Tell you later, Sam," Dean says, as Ray and Fraser see themselves out.

 

"You ever seen Papillon, Fraser?" Ray asks, slinging his arm over the mountie's shoulders. "It's a classic."


	11. Chapter 11

"So how do we attract Lucifer's attention?" Sam asks. The question is a valid one. "I mean, after hiding for so long, he'll be suspicious if we just turn up like, 'hey, come and get me.'"

 

"We'll have to let him think of it on his own," Ray says.

 

"Dragons are naturally camouflaged," Horowitz says, rolling his shoulders irritably, as if what he's saying is common sense. "And we're careful."

 

"So," Dean prompts, following the line of logic. "All you should have to do is show up on the radar and Satan comes running?"

 

"Whatever vessel he's in now is likely splitting at the seams," Castiel says, "And a dragon - a willing one - would be equal to the task of carrying Michael. Lucifer would fall over himself to make sure that doesn't happen."

 

"So - we get the word out that Dragonheart here is trying to get in contact with Michael?" Dean actually likes the sound of that . It keeps him and Sam from being the bait for once.

 

"How do you suggest we do that, exactly?" Ray asks - obviously still not sure what to make of the whole thing.

 

"The angels - well, Zachariah and the like - keep laying traps for you, right?" Horowitz asks and then smirks. "So I give him more than they're asking for. Every war has double agents."

 

"And you're just going to _volunteer_ to go into the pit with Lucifer?" Sam asks, sticking on the point they'd glossed over. "What, out of the goodness of your heart?"

 

"Because I _want_ to," Horowitz turns, suddenly looking at Sam with a clear warning. "Maybe because I have lived enough - lived more than your kind are capable of."

 

"And perhaps I have my interest in this. You will have to trust me," he finalizes with a glance at Dean. Dean's not sure what to make of it, but he's pretty sure the dragon is surprised that he's keeping secrets.

 

But what's there to tell, really? That Dean's suddenly going to be the star of 'two guys and a baby'? That he's probably going to have to ask Castiel how to play double-daddy to a dragon?

 

There just doesn't seem to be any good way to bring that up in conversation. From Vecchio's silence on the matter, he's guessing the other guy hasn't brought it up either.

 

Dean just hopes this plan is worth it.

 

"I'll meet you back here later," Horowitz says suddenly, with a sharp glance at Dean, then a longer one at Castiel. The group falls silent, and Dean realizes everyone's waiting for him to speak up, because somehow yet again he's become the leader. But what should he say exactly? Challenge where the dragon is going or demand he just sit still? It's not what they're about.

 

Instead, he nods, and Horowitz heads off - Dean thinks he hears a car starting, and guesses that makes sense. They all have goodbyes to say, but Horowitz especially.

 

Sam puts an arm on his shoulder and tries to draw him aside for a 'Winchester Power Talk', but Cas tags along, too, with something of his own to say likely.

 

"You just let him go?" Sam asks, obviously concerned that Horowitz would just disappear. Dean can't blame him, but isn't sure it's the best attitude to have. He's not so sure that it's right trade someone who isn't Sam, just to do what he wouldn't let Sam do in the first place. Dean loves his brother, but is Sam the _only_ reason he'll let this happen?

 

"It's willing or nothing, Sammy. I mean, we couldn't exactly _force_ him to stay against his will," Dean is careful - better to use common sense here than to piss off Sam and deal with him sulking about it.

 

"Well, Cas could-" Sam begins to argue before Castiel finally joins the conversation to cut him off.

 

"I _could_ hold the two of you here and call Zacharaiah," Castiel threatens, making a clear point and slowly turning his attention toward Sam, intent and warning. "But I won't."

 

"Alright," Sam allows, sighing. "Point taken. It's just that Dean and I have a little more at risk than-"

 

"No, we've got exactly as much. We're lucky someone else wants to back our hand, that's all."

 

"You don't worry that it might be some kind of trap?" Sam asks, and he's doing his best sincere-face.

 

"It's not-"

 

"Maybe, but-" Dean finds himself talking over Cas, to his surprise. He stops, and gestures for Castiel to finish - because he wants to hear what the angel will say.

 

"It's not a trap. I've known him long enough to have a pretty good idea of his tells," Castiel says, and glances at Dean. "He has his reasons for doing it, but they aren't to lead us into a trap."

 

"Why do I get the feeling there's something I don't know, but everyone else does?" Sam asks, also looking at Dean.

 

"He did ask for a favor in exchange-" Dean begins, and Sam - as always, over-reacts. He tosses his hands up, stressed out and - yeah, that sucks. Sam always assumes it's something bad, when this time Dean's pretty sure it isn't.

 

Granted, he has no idea how bad it _will_ be, exactly. And - to be fair, the sort of deals he's made in the past have kind of given him a bad track record. Well deserved.

 

"What did you agree to _this_ time, Dean? Working for demons? Old gods? Going around and destroying dragon related artifacts?"

 

"No, Sam. Okay? No. It's nothing bad." Dean finally speaks up, trying to get a word in to defend himself. "No killing, no destruction, no - magical quests, or whatever."

 

"Well then; _what_ , Dean?"

 

"He wants me - us, I guess - to raise a baby dragon." Dean spits out - just wanting Sam to get off his trunk for a minute. It works. "To - I don't know, give his species a chance for survival."

 

Sam stares at him in clear disbelief. Dean doesn't blame him - it's kind of how he feels. He almost would have been more comfortable promising to kill something in revenge or - well, anything else, really. This is alien territory.

 

"What's the catch?" Sam asks, after a minute.

 

"Well, we have to protect it - feed it, raise it, I guess. I don't really know what to expect, Sam, it's not like a puppy."

 

"But it isn't like a vampire or demon-possessed, or it only eats virgins or something? We don't have to go rescue it from a pack of pissed off hellhounds?"

 

"Nope. It isn't even hatched yet. I have the egg - we just, you know, rase it."

 

"That's it?"

 

"That's it."

 

Sam sinks into a quiet, thinking moment. He's obviously weighing the possible ramifications of the news. Dean thinks the kid always looks for the bad in everything, and that's just the kind of life they've had.

 

At least he isn't arguing about it. Dean had made the agreement without Sam's input - usually a cause for a long and bitter disagreement where they both asserted that they were adults capable of making their own decisions and both dragged up previous errors in judgment on the part of the other.

 

Normally, Dean would push the envelope because by this point, any victory felt good. And - well, because even if he hated to admit it, arguing with Sam felt normal by this point. Right now, though, he just lets it drop. Sam's doing to have a lot to think about, and ultimately, the decision is up to him. Dean figure they take care of the mess they started, first, and then figure out the rest later.

 

"Cas," he says, and when he turns he's almost surprised to find the angel still there. "Can we talk a minute?"

 

Castiel nods and actually seams to understand that Dean means 'in private' so he backs toward the door and lets himself out. Dean follows.

 

Outside, they both get quiet for a while, It's getting late in the summer, so the nights have begun to cool off rapidly, and Dean's glad for relief from the heat - of one variety, anyway.

 

"You didn't seem too surprised in there by what he wanted," Dean starts, but he doesn't accuse. He lets his tone be a question instead.

 

"I knew he was hiding the eggs, I just didn't know where." Castiel looks uncomfortable as he admits - "I would have to report their locations to my superiors, if I had known any sooner."

 

"Are they really that valuable?" Dean asks, curious.

 

"They are the most valuable thing Horowitz has," Castiel answers, cryptically. "But I believe the host will lose interest when the battle is over. Not many of us have an interest in taking a direct hand in mortal dealings anymore."

 

"Well, who can blame you. I wish there were a few less, of course - no offense."

 

Castiel doesn't seem to take any. He looks at a fixed point on the horizon and seems to be thinking - whatever kinds of things it was that angels thought about.

 

"How long have you known each other?" Dean asks, finally letting his curiosity win out.

 

"We haven't had a steady acquaintance," Castiel says. "I saw him last at Jericho."

 

"The - _wait,_ the city?"

 

"Yes, Dean." Cas answers, beginning to lose patience. He transfers his attention from whatever it was he was looking at before to Dean, warning hin to keep up with the answers if he was going to ask questions.

 

"We were occasional affiliates before that - angels have very few matches for lifespan, but dragons might be the closest. We met when your kind were still banging rocks together for fire and eating the scraps that real predators left."

 

"Back then, we only observed - dragons, too, when humans weren't fool enough to attack them."

 

"But," Dean interjects, coming back to Castiel's earlier point. "Jericho was destroyed - right? People walked around the wall for three days and then God tore it down - or?"

 

"We did," Castiel says, shortly. "When I last met that dragon, we were enemies."

 

They hadn't seemed like it when they met this time, though. Dean tries to piece it together. They'd seemed like - old friends. Maybe the kind that didn't visit as often as they should, but it had made Dean start to realize that Castiel maybe _could_ be friends with someone. He still isn't sure what to make of it.

 

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?" Dean asks, but when he turns around, the angel is gone.

-

 

"Got a line on the Michael Sword," Bobby says, over the speaker phone. Ray has only been roughly introduced to the voice as 'Bobby, another hunter', and he supposes that's fine. If the Winchesters trust him and his information, that's okay. They can run this whole show.

 

"Supposedly it'll kill Lucifer. It's gotta be powerful if this Kate Winslet looking guy can use it to kill the devil. But..."

 

"Seems fishy it would just turn up now when we need something to kill the son of a bitch with," Dean adds, looking up at the assembled group. Ray agrees, even though he doesn't know the history. These guys knew how to dig up the occult, so if they'd been looking for a weapon, this should have turned up by now.

 

"It gets even fishier," Bobby agrees, in a dry drawl that makes Ray pretty sure this guy has to be some kind of trucker. "Supposedly it was last known to be in the possession of John Winchester."

 

"Our _dad_?" Sam asks in disbelief.

 

"The one and only."

 

"Way too convenient," Dean says, looking up at Sam.

 

"Sounds like Zachariah. I don't suppose it says where our dad apparently has this thing?"

 

Dean seems to consider for a moment, then digs in his pocket and comes up with his keys. "He has storage units in a few places. I have no idea which it'd be, though."

 

"Says something about a hill of two dozen dogs," Bobby says, sounding like he's at a total loss. "That mean anything to you?'

 

Dean shrugs, looks up at Sam who shrugs back, but takes a note.

 

"No, I got nothing. We'll look into it." Dean says, so Bobby can hear. Ray thinks that's weird as hell, that angels could go back and plant lore or information just to try and trap someone. It's unsettling.

 

"Why are you two so important anyway?" Ray up and asks at last. He's all for helping out, but more information would be nice. It's frustrating to try and come in halfway through the game.

 

"Kind of a long story," Sam says and looks at Dean, Ray guesses to see if there's any opposition to an explanation. Dean shrugs in response, and turns the phone off speaker, scooping it up to speak to Bobby on a few other points while the others worked on the rest of the plan.

 

"Well," Sam begins, shifting one chair over to address the rest of the table like a class. "In order to not, uh, make people explode with holiness, angels need a, um, Vessel - to manifest in reality. I don't know all the details-"

 

Horowitz interrupts Sam, pulling out a chair and settling in. He has a beer from somewhere, causing Ray to straighten up and look around for the others.

 

"What you experience in this plane of existence, to be overly Star-Trek about it, Is the barest flexings of angelic power. An angel's smallest whisper shatters glass and makes the earth herself tremble," he says, not without an ironic tinge to his voice - likely for the fact that he was a dragon, sitting in a chair and having a beer. He points casually to the case of beer by the door, and Ray feels immensely grateful for the consideration. While he fetches one for himself and one for Fraser, he is careful to keep listening.

 

"In order to make themselves understood, they rely on human vessels. More or less, they are possessed by angelic will, but they must volunteer willingly. Each angel is only compatible with a specific human bloodline."

 

"Why?" Ray asks, before he thinks about it. It probably doesn't really matter but he's curious.

 

Horowitz shakes his head, admitting wordlessly that he doesn't know. "The Winchesters are a matched set, and compatible with Michael and Lucifer. Sam has - well."

 

"I'm unique," Sam allows, grumpily. Ray guesses he'll never know the whole story He probably doesn't want to.

 

"Dragons are - type O negative. Universal donor." Horowitz picks back up. "Rarer by far, though. Hard as the Winchesters were to find, that's a cakewalk compared to digging up one dragon in this day and age."

 

"Just my luck," Ray puts in, chuckling. He's had more than enough of dragons, he thinks, for a lifetime. Ray hopes this has used up the rest of his weird shit quota for the year, anyway.

 

"How _did_ we get so lucky anyway?" Dean asks, returning as he hangs up the phone. "If you guys are so rare, why'd you pick us to hang around? We were just as likely to try and kill you as listen to you."

 

"I was curious. And unlucky," Horowitz answers, his tone bland. "Maybe it was just fate."

 

Dean looks like he wants to argue, maybe, but he doesn't do it in public. Ray is O.K. with that. Everybody has their secrets.

 

"Get this," Dean says instead. "The address of one of Dad's storage units is on 24 Rover Hill."

 

"Two dozen dogs," Ray says, and lifts his hand to press his fingertips against his eyelids. "You're right. That does seem too easy. And angels _are_ dicks."

 

"It hasn't been up until now," Sam says, tiredly. "We had a hell of a time with the horsemen."

 

"The - what?" Ray says, feeling like he's missing something important. All these references keep flying at him. Fraser is finally moved to enter the conversation, instead of doing his best statue impression.

 

"I assume he means the horsemen of the apocalypse, Ray." Fraser informs, quietly. He looks serious - Ray wishes he knew what the Mountie was thinking. It's probably something like what's on Ray's mind, which is mostly ' _oh shit_ the apocalypse', and then trying to just _not_ think about it. It would suck if the world ended before he got laid again.

 

 _That_ thought teeters away into awkwardness, too. How did he admit to Fraser that he had about as much idea of what he should be doing in - _that kind of situation_ , his mind supplies hurriedly - as he would if someone told him to start juggling and handed him flaming torches? Not that Fraser required as much careful handling as some kind of burning object. It was embarrassing.

 

Ray realizes he's thinking about having sex with Fraser while they're trying to plan to stop the apocalypse and _everyone is looking at him._

 

"Horsemen of the apocalypse, okay," he says, trying to force his mind back on track and remember if he knows anything about those. Some distant memory surfaces in his mind. "So... Methos, Silas - two other guys."

 

" _What_?" Sam asks. Both Winchesters are staring at him like he's suddenly grown an extra head.

 

"What?" he asks back, unsure what he's said that's wrong.

 

Horowitz curls the side of his fist against his mouth, and practically collapses into laughter. Ray still can't figure out what's wrong.

 

"Ah," Fraser says, rubbing the center of his forehead briefly. "More traditionally the four horsemen are War, Famine, Pestilence and Death."

 

"This-" Horowitz manages, before he starts laughing again, struggling to continue as he gets ahold of himself again. "This isn't _Highlander_ , man."

 

Ray takes a minute to realize that the names he'd referred to earlier probably _were_ from a TV show or something. He shrugs sheepishly - it wasn't like this sort of thing was a usual occurrence. He'll just keep his big mouth shut, since Fraser at least seemed to know what he was talking about.

 

"What was I even talking about?" Sam asks.

 

"Don't know Sammy," Dean answers. "Vecchio shanghaied us."

 

"My name's not actually-" Ray says, before he remembers not only was he not talking, but that he should be keeping the secret. Maybe it's not the best idea he's ever had, but hell these guys can keep a secret and if he has to have 'Vecchio' on his damn tombstone, it's just going to be way too much. "I'm just covering his space. My last name's Kowalski."

 

"Should I even ask?" Dean asks, staring in bewilderment.

 

"It's not really that important," Ray says. "Just thought we should be honest."

 

The conversation has gone so far off the track that Ray isn't sure where it was going originally.

 

"Horsemen," Horowitz reminds. "You'll need their rings to reconstruct and open the way to the cage beneath hell."

 

"We have three," Dean says. Ray's slowly sinking out of the conversation, feeling events he had no part in whizz over his head like really bad baseball pitches. He figures when he's needed, they'll let him know. Ray lets his gaze slide. Fraser is watching the others, intent. It's like he can keep up, effortlessly.

 

"We don't have Death's," Dean answers a question that was asked, and Fraser's expression gets faintly worried - brows drawing in slowly to form a faint crease in his forehead. His eyes slid toward Ray, and he catches Ray looking at him. For a moment, they both reassure each other wordlessly. Ray's positive they should be embarrassed, but glad when he doesn't feel it.

 

"You'll have to deal for it," Horowitz says, catching Fraser's attention back. "You can't fight Death. He's far older and more powerful than angels or demons."

 

Ray tunes out again, watching Fraser breathe, swallow. Watching the way his eyes move across the speakers in turn. Fraser's hands are folded in his lap. He sits with his back stiffly straight. Ray wants to pull the tension out of him. He thinks it'll be like unlacing something. Tiny, long pulled gives that come sequentially, before the string pulls free and leaves him scattered. Relaxed.

 

He can almost feel the slow-cranking ratchet of his own tension, as it mirrors Ben's. Like his body already knows how to answer the other one, or has learned that Fraser's instincts are always sound and should be paid attention to.

 

Rays mind wanders back, tries to pick apart the rapid events of a few nights past. It feels a little dangerous. It had hit him badly before - but now, it doesn't all rush up like it had. It goes slower, when he focuses his mind.

 

"-don't even know where to find him-"

 

The conversation drifts by. Ray walks himself through the events of two nights ago. Fraser showing up like some kind of - well, guardian angel, Ray guesses. Fraser putting Ray off his well-worn tracks of self pity. Asking him to dance.

 

No, that wasn't exactly right. Or maybe, at the heart of things, it _was._ Maybe Fraser had meant that the whole time, and Ray had known it. That was why it felt so out of synch, because he and Fraser should already have known where they were going, like they'd gone there a hundred times before. Should have known better than to go around in denial.

 

Like they'd always been half of each other, their bodies had just been in a rush to catch up when they'd finally realized it.

 

"Is that even possible?" Dean asks. Ray slowly returns to the conversation. He kind of wishes he hadn't, because he thinks they're talking about some kind of deal with actual Death, like it was a person and not some kind of eventuality.

 

Then again, with the way his life was these last few days, it might not be the weirdest thing that happens.

 

"First we have to know where he is," Horowitz says, glancing at each brother in turn. Both shake their heads. No clue.

 

"Where tragedy goes," Horowitz says, and glances at a back corner of the room. A rustle of sound announces Castiel's presence, in a round of either really good or really bad timing.

 

"We won't have to find him," Castiel rasps, quietly. "He's coming to us."

-

 

Dean catches Horowitz outside. He's packing tobacco into an old fashioned pipe, looking up at the sky. It's still mostly light, summer's long days still fighting for every bit of sunshine. He stands beside the dragon and gets noticed.

 

"You had a question?" Horowitz prompts, producing a lighter and taking long draws with the flame against the packed tobacco. The pipe is slow to start.

 

"You didn't investigate us just because you were curious," Dean says.

 

"No," the other answers. He exhales sweet wood-smelling smoke and gives Dean a look that tells him to be quiet. Patient. It aggravates Dean, just rubs him totally the wrong way. All this patience, all this resigned discipline.

 

"You really are just going to go meekly to your death?" He says, while he's still supposed to be waiting. Horowitz glances at him sharply, almost angrily for the first time since Dean remembers, but finally just sighs and relents.

 

"Before you feel too bad for me, you should realize I would end your kind in an instant if I could," he says, lowly, threatening. "The same as you would end mine, and anything else like me, because we are different. You do not know me. So yes, I will go meekly to my death, but it is not to save _you_ or spare your brother, it is simply to be sure the job will be done _correctly."_

 

The dragon inhales a long draw, the pipe finally catches. He pushes a thumb into the bowl, tamping the burning coal down with his fingers, betraying his inhumanity in the fact that he does not flinch. "As for your first question, I smelled Castiel on you."

 

He drops the revelation like a ton of bricks, letting it fall as casually off his tongue as a construction accident, and following it with a deep inhale while Dean tries to figure out exactly what that could mean. Of course, he knows the basic meaning of the words, that he had reeked so strongly of the Angel that the Dragon had been able to recognize it, but that he had involved himself with the Winchesters just for - what? An opportunity? A chance to see Castiel again?

 

"How do you know each other?" Dean blurts, before he can stop himself. He remembers Castiel's strange behavior, too - telling them about the dragon but only roundabout, then showing up later and implying that Dean and Sam weren't supposed to just kill it.

 

"Eternally. Intimately. Adversely," Horowitz answers. "Biblically. We know each other in every way. Does that satisfy you?"

 

It doesn't, but it awakens in Dean the knowledge that there is the possibility. For what, he's got to think, but Horowitz crashes on, with no attention.

 

"You haven't even realized, yet," the dragon says, and for the first time, he sounds harsh. It might be the pipe smoke, but Dean doesn't think so. He thinks - dizzily - it might be emotion.

 

"You want him," the dragon says without looking at Dean. He's looking up at the sky again, watching for the stars to come out or... who knows. Doing whatever dragons did at sunset. "Because he is powerful. Fascinating. New. Because when he looks at you, he knows you for what you are, and loves you anyway."

 

"What the hell are you-" Dean starts protesting - no way. No damn way he liked Castiel like... well _that_.

 

Horowitz silences him with a look.

 

"It's not like that, okay?"

 

After a long silence, Horowitz finally replies. "Don't deny it for too long. He might live forever, but _you_ don't."


	12. Chapter 12

They spend the day getting ready. Ray's not sure how much of what they're doing will come into practical effect, but what can he do? At least he knows how to fill shotgun shells, so he does that, packing some with rock salt so Satan will be properly tenderized and seasoned, he guesses. The ones he packs with silver and iron pellets he understands a little better, at least that's metal.

 

He guesses it means that not everything is about injuring the flesh. Some of it's about severing ties, tearing loose that tenuous hold these things had on the world. Some of this, at least, the preparation, is just about not feeling helpless.

 

Everybody except him and Fraser have a few personal errands and disappear briefly over the course of the day. Ray's still trying to decide if this is going to be the final showdown or what - though he guesses somehow it will be. If he knew a title fight was coming up, and found out the other fighter was about to put in for some new gloves or something, he'd show up, too.

 

He doesn't understand how that's not bad news for Dean, but the brothers seem to know how that's going to play out. This was about saving Sam (for Dean, anyway) and saving the world for everyone else. Maybe for Dean, too, but the older Winchester just seemed to have that priority. Ray kind of gets that, too.

 

So maybe saving the world from apocalypse and everything is all well and good, but it wasn't that long ago that he'd have just shrugged it off, because he'd thought the world had all gone to hell anyway. It wasn't the ball of rocks and dirt and trees that were worth it - though that whole nature thing, when seen from Fraser's perspective anyway, was pretty fantastic. It's the people that make the place worth living on. Sometimes they knock you down and kick you in the ribs until you want to die, sure, but sometimes they...

 

Sometimes they were Fraser.

 

The angel guy, Castiel, disappears and re-appears several times, carrying various jugs. Ray's pretty sure he doesn't even want to know. Notably, Sam and Dean are gone all day. Doing that deal-with-death thing. So when he runs out of plastic shotgun shells to fill, with the various types all lined up on the table like he's some kind of crazy axe-murderer, only he guesses he'd be a shotgun murderer with all these shotgun shells, there's no one who can tell him what to do.

 

"Dief," he says, standing up. The wolf perks up, and Ray grins, looks over at Fraser - who's been speed-reading books so that he'll be some kind of crazy monster-lore encyclopedia in addition to every other kind of thing which he already is. "C'mon, guys. Let's stretch our legs before we go crazy."

 

The wolf jumps up to his feet, and Fraser looks for a moment like he might be about to protest, but instead puts the big dusty book off his lap and gets to his feet. Ray's glad he'll come along. They haven't had much time to themselves since this mess started, and it was beginning to seem urgent.

 

Castiel and Horowitz look up - they're in different corners of the room, but neither protest, and simply go back to what they were doing as Ray, one wolf, and one Mountie head outside.

 

It doesn't _seem_ like the apocalypse, out here in the middle of Illinois, really they aren't that far from Chicago. Maybe there's a storm brewing - it's late summer, and that happens. The sky's clouded over steel gray, is what it means. There's a breeze. The air tastes like electricity. Maybe that's how it starts, but Ray can't bring himself to worry too much about it. Hell, if Death's in town and all that's happening is a bit of strange weather, that's probably pretty lucky.

 

"Fraser," Ray says, as they get out into the expanse of de-forested empty trash-filled lot behind the motel. It's not pretty, but it seemed like it belonged here. Put the place in context. He pauses, shakes himself out like he can shed all the professionalism he's been trying to maintain for so long, or at least it seems like a long time. Maybe longer than he'd thought. He starts again, while Fraser looks at him attentively.

 

"Ben, I've had time to think about it," he says, mind going back, and he feels a smile creep in at the corners of his mouth. "And I mean, I know I haven't said this yet, so."

 

Fraser is just looking at him, realizing his words before he says them, he thinks, because he's smiling, too. Distantly. Wonderingly.

 

"I like you," is what comes out of Ray's mouth, and he frowns at how lame it was. His mind and words fight together for a few moments more. "I mean, really. I mean I more than like you. Obviously I like you, I always have."

 

He stops, takes a deep breath, and puts words in a line in his brain. Focuses on saying each one in order so that it feels a bit less... difficult. "I love you."

 

"I know, Ray," Fraser says, and he takes the two steps required to close the distance between them. Diefenbaker glances back at them once, gives a half-hopeful wag of his tail as Fraser's arm slings comfortingly over Ray's shoulders. "You don't have to force yourself. I already know."

 

"Good," Ray says, in a rush of air, and leans heavily against Fraser. It had taken more out of him than he'd thought it would. The words were hard to say, and not think about the times he'd used them before. With time, he knows it'll be easy. It's the fact that they might not have it - even if he can't really bring himself to believe it - that drives him to act.

 

He turns his face against Fraser's neck, trying to figure out how much of an idiot he was for holding on to Stella so long. Fraser's fingers catch up under the short hairs on the back of Ray's neck, and he remembers the urgency he'd felt earlier in the afternoon. It sparks alive in his nerve endings, and the light touch wakes him up, is what it feels like.

 

"Hey, Fraser," he says, lifting his own hand to squeeze at the back of Benton's neck and make sure he's paying attention. "I think we better go inside."

 

Fraser _gets it_. Ray couldn't describe the exact steps it takes to get them back to the door of number thirteen, how they navigate there and get inside without tripping over themselves, each other, or Diefenbaker. He hopes they make it without being seen, because they are all over each other, fast as that. Ray forgets how to be nervous all of a sudden, his hands just going for what they want like he'd spent time thinking about it.

 

In a vague way, he had. This was almost... familiar. The way he pushed his fingers over Fraser's stomach, found it firm like one might expect. He finds Fraser's sides - and here he protests, just a little, like the skin is either sensitive or ticklish - or maybe like he's just surprised to have Ray's hands there so fast. Ray can't sort out if they're kissing before the door closes or just as it's happening, and like that really matters.

 

He presses Fraser up against it and they're kissing open mouthed and urgent, like the world's ending and they can skip all the dancing around it in favor of just going where they both want. Fraser's hands are in Ray's t-shirt, bunching it up so the words are unreadable, and pulling down on it, like he's forgotten what he was going to do with them in favor of just kissing Ray at last, like they both mean it.

 

"Ray," Fraser's voice has descended down into a growl, and Ray finds it hard to make his eyes focus right as he looks up. Fraser's so _clear_ right here, and Ray doesn't even need his glasses. He realizes his fingers are unbuttoning the ugly flannel shirt Fraser dug up from somewhere. It can't be Ray's - maybe it can. "I know you had expressed a desire to take a more moderate pace-"

 

"Forget what I said, Ben," Ray cuts him off before he can start to argue them both out of this. A hard yank undoes the last button when Ray gets frustrated with trying to finesse it. "I'm an idiot."

 

"Understood," Fraser answers, his hands settling low on Ray's back as he looks over his shoulder, to deliver an order to the wolf. "Diefenbaker, get off the bed."

 

Ray laughs as a Dief noise protests the order, but he can hear the wolf hit the floor, and hopes that if Dief has any sense, he's heading into the bathroom to take a nice long nap on the tile. Preferably with his paws over his ears. Regardless, as Ray backs up, gets Fraser's shirt off of him, and wasn't that about the best thing, ever - and then they both land on the bed, Ray does not in fact land _on_ Diefenbaker, which might have been kind of a mood killer.

 

Fraser had a body that you just had to appreciate. Now Ray gets to. More than appreciate, he can touch and manipulate, get his hands on, find out what makes Fraser take in sudden breaths when Ray surprises him with something good. Fraser's heavy, settled all along Ray, over him and without reserve. Fraser isn't worried about crushing him - it's a good heavy. A genuine kind. The sort of sensation that makes Ray's thoughts slide back finally - usually he thinks so much more when he starts to feel this way, but Fraser pins him down and takes it out of him.

 

It feels... _better than great_. Fraser's mouth on his neck - gentle. Fraser's hands pushing his shirt up- rough, insistent. They're working hands, with rough skin from exposure to cold and strength from all the things he's lifted and carried. Like Ray all those times. Ray feels himself arching, doesn't fight it, Fraser's knee sliding up firm against his groin and then there is just way too much jeans there. Maybe it should make him panic when he scrabbles his hands down between them and he can feel Fraser's erection against the back of his hand, his own against his palm, but instead he just tries to figure out how he's going to get their zippers undone without maiming either of them and without having to get any further away.

 

Fraser groans, and they both half-sit up by unspoken agreement. Because they're a team, Fraser gets Ray's shirt mostly off - it sticks on the one arm he refuses to lift because that hand is too busy negotiating the button on Fraser's jeans, then the zipper, then mirroring the act on his own. He almost starts to lose courage, but then one of Fraser's hands comes in to help, and he doesn't feel like he's the only one pushing the issue.

 

It becomes real in the moment when they both push past underwear and Ray closes his fingers gently around Fraser's erection. Fraser isn't as immediately direct, pushing his thumb up the underside of Ray's penis, the rough pad surprisingly _good_ right there, he can really feel it, identify the touch as uniquely Fraser's. Like there could really be any confusion, because the sounds Fraser makes as Ray's fingers begin to slide are definitely Fraser, too.

 

A little broken, more than a little ready, certainly Fraser-in-a-rush, but undoubtedly Fraser. Ray likes that, likes that he can tell what he's doing is working by the sounds Ben makes, back in his throat and so quiet, but they're close enough together that Ray gets the cues. That they're just for _him._

 

It's not elegant, what they do. It's hurried - because Ray's in a hurry and that puts Fraser in a hurry. They're right on that same wavelength like that, and then finally Fraser stops them - Ray thinks he's going to slow them down, and that's not what he _wants_. Not right now.

 

Fraser doesn't, though. He just gets their pants a little more out of the way, hitching his own down under his hips, and Ray mirrors the move even if it constricts his legs when Fraser settles back in, his free hand still holding onto Ray's, restraining him until Fraser gets them both where he wants them to be.

 

The first long slide of their cocks together drags Ray's voice out of him like nothing he's ever felt before, and he'd never have thought that could feel good. Not nearly as good as it does when Fraser untangles their fingers and wraps his hand around both their lengths together - Ray doesn't let him get away with it for very long, fighting against his own desire to just let Fraser take over, because the impression that he's not right there with Fraser fighting for the same thing, grabbing for the same really good feeling, is not the one he wants to give.

 

Both their hands together and then the friction is just right, the pressure just right and they stop moving their hands in favor of short pushes with their hips, with their foreheads pushed together and free arms looped bracingly around each other's shoulders. They're holding on, and letting go, fighting and surrendering like they do, because that's just how they are together.

 

Ray comes fist, and doesn't feel self conscious about it, because he hardly has time - his mind just goes away to that good place, and then he fights it back, just for the few moments it takes Fraser to join him. Fraser's voice forms these little noises that Ray bets he doesn't even realize he's making, vowel sounds that are more breath than anything else, but it's so obviously _Fraser_ 's voice that it's hot in its own right.

 

Their bodies sag closer as their muscles slowly relax, and Ray's head thuds against the hotel wall with a dull pain that makes him laugh. Fraser doesn't even pull himself together enough to apologize for it, so they just sit half tangled together and damp. Ray can feel the sweat on his scalp, but more importantly he can feel Fraser breathing against him, the racing heartbeat, and nothing remotely like guilt. Just relief.

 

Briefly, a desire to do it again. More. Push more boundaries. But - well, that'll have to wait. The sex isn't the only thing Ray'll be fighting for, but he puts it on the list of reasons anyway, because there is just no use lying to himself. Fraser'd see through it.

-

 

Dean's mood when he gets back is far from good. It's not that he expected meeting with Death to be easy, but he's pretty sure he's never had a more terrifying moment in his life. Under that kind of pressure, he lets himself think that anyone would have agreed to what he did. The ring is in his pocket, he can feel it, given willingly and on the condition that Dean did _whatever_ it took, even if he had to pitch Sam in the pit, and jump in after him.

 

He runs over the instructions in his mind, focusing on remembering the Latin, still repeating the phrase that activates the cage over and over as he gets out of the car. The ride back with Sam had been silent. Sam has been quiet, too, probably thinking a lot. At least he's not arguing, which makes Dean feel good. Maybe they're both not arguing because they can finally do something that might possibly work. They have an _idea_ at least, something to work toward instead of tearing each other apart.

 

He pushes the hotel door open, and finds the room less occupied than when he'd left. Castiel and Horowitz sit on opposite sides of the small hotel table. The dragon's hands are folded on the top, and the angel has his planted flat on his lap.

 

Dean is struck by the picture.

 

"Did you guys just sit here and stare at each other while we were out facing down Death?" He asks, incredulous.

 

"I... kept an eye on you," Castiel says, hesitantly. "We talked."

 

"Where's Kowalski and Fraser?"

 

Both of them look a little uncomfortable. Horowitz indicates the rooms across the way with a glance, and then arches his eyebrows. Dean has no idea what that's about. He plants his feet, and makes an expectant gesture with his head. The last thing he needs are awol apocalypse party guests. And if the two were taken, they probably aren't going to have time to worry about getting them back until after things go down.

 

"Went to walk their wolf, I think," Horowitz answers at last when he seems to think that he's not going to get away without giving an answer. "I think they just needed a break from the tension."

 

Dean gets _that,_ just not why he hadn't gotten a straight answer to begin with. He doesn't get a chance to ask, though, as the very wolf in question comes bounding across the parking lot as he looks, and then in the door. His owner and Kowalski aren't far behind.

 

"Sorry," Kowalski says. "I finished loading all the shotgun shells, but then I just couldn't sit around and wait. Those two are good at it, but I gotta keep moving."

 

They all pack back into the one room, and Dean realizes it's a bit for security, and a bit because waiting together is going to beat the hell out of waiting alone. He nods, and closes the door, and knows the long vigil for the morning is just beginning.

-


	13. Chapter 13

Horowitz is the first to sit down at the table.

 

He delicately unfolds the top flap on the cardboard box containing a box of cards - they look like they came from a gift shop somewhere, and Horowitz studiously counts them, making sure they're all there. There's something old about his touch, something that seems so ageless that Dean almost can't comprehend it - these are common objects, but Horowitz must be thinking about all the incarnations he's held them in back across the centuries.

 

Saying nothing on his inner thoughts, the dragon sorts two cards from the deck and isolates them in the center of the table - the joker cards.

 

"Blackjack," Horowitz explains, carefully, shuffling cards in a casual way. Dean doesn't want to know how that works, exactly. "Descended from Baccarat, it became known in France as Vingt et un, and spread like wildfire with the French world explorers of the sixteen hundreds. Cervantes was... a big fan."

 

Dean doesn't ask who Cervantes is, because he doesn't really care. He's just glad to do something that isn't plan, because he is sick of trying to be ready for everything without being able to predict absolutely everything that's going to happen - and who could, really?

 

"I think because of its ease, Blackjack will endure for as long as the rest of humanity does," the dragon says, snapping cards together in a bridge, and then beginning to deal. Castiel tries to deny taking a card, but gets passed one anyway, with a long stare from Horowitz.

 

Dean is genuinely surprised when he relents.

 

"Enough with the history lesson," Kowalski asserts, "Let's play."

 

Cards deal back and forth over the table, ebbing and flowing. Everybody hands off the duty of being dealer so no one person is stuck doing it too long. Dean's surprised - or maybe he isn't, really at how quickly things get easy between them.

 

"I know we're all McQueen fans here," Kowalski says, glancing at his unrevealed card with only casual interest. "So we'll just have to hope we're dealing ourselves a better hand than the Cincinatti Kid."

 

"Kid let his own honor win over his survival in the end," Dean says, shuffling. "No room to keep our scruples when it's not just our asses on the line. We do what it takes to get the job done."

 

"Normally I'd say no way to a loaded hand," Ray agrees, and then sighs. He looks up, looks across the table at where Fraser is occupied with his hand and placating the dog under the table with some kind of snack. Ray shakes his head a little, and Dean Realizes the cop and the Mountie are _partners_ -type-partners. Realizes Ray's fighting to protect more than just the world. "But stakes that high, and I'll take any advantage I can get."

 

"Amen to that," Sam says, and glances apologetically at Cas. The angel seems either used to it, or maybe just preoccupied, watching Horowitz. The hand ends, Dean having to stand on a lousy seventeen. Dean shuffles the cards, glad for the lazy play style that means no one has to care or pay attention too much. It's just enough distraction.

 

"We aren't really still talking about this?" Horowitz prompts, reaching out and taking the cards. "We have defied fate and tempted our destinies. The rest we let fall like thus - dominoes."

 

The dragon spreads the cards out in a line on the table, and hooking his index under the first, flips them all over in succession, and then back, gathering and shuffling them again before he deals.

 

"It's on everyone's mind," Sam apologizes, and Dean realizes that it's probably hard for Horowitz to keep hearing everyone talk about it. Dean remembers a feeling like that - and it really didn't seem that long ago.

 

"It's not on mine," the dragon answers serenely, displaying an ace and a ten as his hand. Castiel matches him with an ace and a king, which surprises Horowitz. He clucks his tongue, utters the word "Push."

 

Angel and dragon exchange a long look, before Horowitz shakes his head and looks away.

 

"I bet none of you have an interest in history," Horowitz says, collecting the deck when everyone else passes in their cards and just manipulating it in his hands, slowly, flipping sections with deft fingers. "Shame, because your rumpled friend here _made_ some of it."

 

Castiel looks uncomfortable. His eyes go downward, toward the table. Horowitz glances up at him, from where his hands are working the cards. "Castiel used to be so very obedient."

 

"Famisa-medeh-mals, Na-hath," the angel says, and Horowitz falters, shuffles again. The room goes tense with flexing power, though neither immortal moves threateningly. Dean knows a stare-down when he sees one, even if what can be seen of the two is barely making eye contact.

 

"Unmalseduredgedeh-cedgon, Castah-ehl," the dragon answers, low. The table is quiet. Even Castiel goes silent. Dean doesn't recognize the language, but guesses Enochian. Equally, he wishes that he spoke it and hopes to never find out the meaning of the conversation. This is deeper than Dean thinks he might be comfortable with.

 

He realizes, as he looks at his cards, he's jealous. Jealous that there are some things about Cas he'll never now, but that someone else does.

 

Castiel for his part, is silent. Diminished.

 

"Goneh uredaugragal, gomedau," Horowitz says. If Dean doesn't know the words, he knows the tone. Castiel looks up, expressing some inexpressible emotion with his eyes and shakes his head once, left to right, in denial.

 

"Uh,okay-" Sam says, and then, "Hit me?"

 

Horowitz spools out a card for Sam from the deck. Dean smirks. Sam has busted, for sure. His brother makes a frustrated sound and tosses his cards on the table in defeat.

 

Sam always overplays - and Dean Realizes it's because maybe underneath all that, his entire yeti-exterior and all the shit he's been through, he's still an optimist somehow. Maybe that's the whole reason Sam was still trying to get out of the Hunter's life - because he realized that life might just possibly go on without him.

 

Dean laughs. His hand is seventeen. He doesn't know whether to hit or stand, so he stands. So if Sam's still an optimist, Dean's whole life - stupid Sam arguments and everything, can mean something. It means he's at least done one thing right, even if sometimes 'right' is a giant pain in the ass.

 

Kowalski hits, then stands. Fraser stands. Horowitz and Cas are still looking at each other, now in silence. Dean wishes he didn't sympathize. Wishes, too, that Cas would just disappear. Maybe the reason Castiel ran so often from a straight answer _was_ Horowitz. Like the dragon's relationship with the angel - _whatever_ it was, was the precursor to Dean's own.

 

That maybe something inside Castiel s cared the angel, the same way things Dean learned about himself scared him, too. The jealousy Dean feels gives way almost to relief - as much as he wishes he were the first and only thing in Castiel's life like this, the thought is just too much also.

 

It'll be easier he thinks, to take the first step if he knows what he wants is even possible. Less daunting if Castiel also knows he's capable.

 

Fraser clears his throat and reveals a twenty. Two face cards. The Mountie has incredible luck. Must be part of what was unique about him. All the other players losing seems to unite the table again, and even the tension between Horowitz and Castiel fades at last.

 

Dean begins to forget everything but just the game. How, he's not sure, but he's glad.

-

 

It's after midnight and with everyone only drinking beer, they are all still pretty lucid. Slowly, Ray notices that the rules are evolving. Everyone begins to give little confessions as they lose, because they might not get another chance, maybe.

 

He's glad that Dean mostly wins , but after a while, sensing that he's the one with maybe the highest stakes, the older Winchester counts himself out of the game. It leaves only half the original players at the table, telling each other quiet, human truths.

 

"Tell me something the other Ray doesn't know," Ray asks, when Sam gets up to go to the bathroom. He has a sudden desire to have one thing about Fraser all to himself.

 

"I was in love with a woman named Victoria," Fraser says, like it had been on his mind anyway. Ray has to think back to all of his research, before the name strikes a memory. "And I loved her no matter what she did to me."

 

"That's the case where Vecchio shot you in the back," Ray says, remembering the scar under his fingertips. Late, he realizes that maybe it was the wrong thing to say..

 

"He thought that she had a gun, that she was going to shoot me to stop me from chasing her," Fraser tells his hand of cards, with his brows all wrinkled up. Focused. "I wasn't chasing her. I was going to go with her. She had asked me to."

 

Ray reaches out, puts his hand over Fraser's because he wants Fraser to look at him. He doesn't have to be ashamed of being willing to do _anything_ for someone.

 

"I told Ray that I forgave him for it, when he took a bullet for me," Fraser continues, sounding ashamed. He looks up. "But I didn't."

 

Ray is flatly astounded. It must have been one hell of a betrayal for Benton Fraser to lie about it. It means that Fraser knew he should forgive the other man, but just couldn't bring himself to do it.

 

"That is, until I got to know you, Ray," Fraser confides. "If I had run off with Victoria, she would have eventually killed me or left me to take the charges for her crimes. But I had to stay. I had to face getting over her. Then, Vecchio abandoned me, too. At least he left me you."

-

 

Sometime in the evening, Dean notices that Horowitz has drifted away. Players have sat out of hands all night, sometimes several at a time - getting drinks, stretching their legs. Working out tension, mostly. It's hard knowing you only have so much control over something so big - but he guesses that's how it's always been, anyway. Things happen, the world changes. Just, if Dean has anything to do with it, he's going to make it change for the better.

 

It all rides on a certain set of shoulders, though. Dean knows what the weight feels like, is pretty sure he can only relax so much because it's been transferred off of his own. And he'd had Sam to share the load with.

 

In the heat, they've left the hotel room door open, cool air providing relief as it gusts in from outside, and he can see that Horowitz is sitting on the bottom of the two cement steps that lead up into the room, resting his chin against the heel of his hand, with a curl of smoke extending from the pipe he's smoking.

 

Dean sees that Cas is watching the man - dragon, but it's hard to remember when there's such a human slope to his shoulders. Dean wonders if he's typical, for what a dragon is like. It's pretty usual for humanity to wipe out things it doesn't understand.

 

Apex predators fought, too. If there's one thing Dean's learned from Animal Planet, that's probably it. So, why hadn't dragons won? He wishes he could ask the question, but now isn't the time. He'll probably never know.

 

"Another round?" Dean asks, passing dealer-duty off to Sam. He wants Cas to bow out for some reason. Wants the angel to go and - say goodbye, maybe. He has no idea why he expects that. Castiel never said goodbye, never offered comfort. Sometimes, Dean guesses he forgets that the angel isn't human, either.

 

It's like when they both donned their disguises so that they might be understood, something was lost in the translation to human logic.

 

"Deal me out," Castiel says, and Dean almost startles. He's been deeper than he usually gets anyway, because hey - the world could end tomorrow. They were playing all or nothing, and the game was considerably less friendly than blackjack.

 

Sam shrugs, and puts four sets of two cards down. Castiel gets up, Dean's watching him. He hears - distantly, that everyone groans and folds. When he glances down, he has the ace of spades and the jack of clubs.

 

"How about poker?" Ray asks, frankly, tossing his cards which totaled a grand sum of twelve on the table.

 

"What are the stakes?" Dean asks, forcing himself to be interested in more than watching Castiel move toward the doorway. He leans forward and grins, liking the prospect of hustling a cop.

 

"I'm obligated to remind you that gambling outside of a legally authorized establishment is against the law," Fraser enters the conversation smoothly. Dean's never sure if the guy is for real or not.

 

"They better be edible, I guess," Ray allows.

-

He catches Castiel alone by catching wordlessly at the angel's battered sleeve as he steps by where he and Horowitz sit outside, and the dragon doesn't protest them moving off to have a quiet word alone, because everyone's giving everyone a lot of slack and favors this evening. Everyone's getting ready for the worst, and the best, and making sure that there are chances to sort things out for both eventualities between themselves.

 

"Dean," Castiel says, quietly. "If you're worried about tomorrow, I'll be right beside you."

 

He realizes that Cas means right now, if Dean asks for it. Right now, all the way until it's time to go. That they don't have to be apart, and he can lean on Castiel. What he hadn't realized until this second was how much that thought might mean to him. How many opportunities that Cas had given him to take these steps he didn't know he wanted to take, and now it was getting right up on what might be too late. Dean is a pessimist - he knows that things might not work out tomorrow, and this might be his last chance to try this. To see if it really is what he wants.

 

Dean wants Castiel by his side, but -

 

"You should be with him, he's the one dying tomorrow, if everything goes _right_."

 

"Dean, I-"

 

 _want to be with you, but am torn_.

 

That Dean somehow reads the intent in the words surprises him. Castiel had always been so hard to get a fix on, but maybe - Dean realizes that it's because he was trying so hard to put Castiel on this whole other level. Cas was _different_ , sure - but isn't it just possible that he and the angel had enough things that were the same about them that they could still relate?

 

"Sit with him," Dean insists. "He's giving _us_ time, later."

 

"Sure. Later. After the apocalypse?" There is something sad about Cas' tone.

 

"After we _avoid_ it."

 

 

-

 

The game breaks up at 3 am because everyone's too tired to remember the rules by that point. Ray's sick of pretzels by then anyway, being unable to resist eating his winnings.

 

Nobody's going to sleep, everybody knows it. Ray's sick of this motel, too. Maybe it grates on him a little more, knowing what's at stake tomorrow. And - well, maybe everything won't end all at once. He never thought that judgment would be like that, anyway. Possibly, no one did. Things will just slowly fade away.

 

Maybe they already were. Sometimes the world felt like that, all muted colors and everything dull and quiet. Mostly, he felt like that when he was trying to sleep.

 

"Hey, Fraser?" Ray asks, because they're sitting together on the couch - who knows where the Winchesters had gone off to. Sam's in the shower, Dean's probably sitting outside. "You ever think that maybe everything's already over?"

 

"Yes," Fraser says, and the brevity of the answer startles Ray. He isn't sure what he expected. An Eskimo story, a half a book quoted back at him, poetry maybe.

 

That - real, undisguised truth - was not what Ray was expecting. Ray reaches out and puts his hand on the back of Fraser's neck, pressing his palm reassuringly to the only available skin. Despite all his jitters, and all the low anxiety creeping in Ray's belly, he's sure they'll make it through. Maybe not because it's easy to have faith in Horowitz, or angels, or any kind of big plan that's crept up on them slowly. Fraser doesn't have to explain, because it's at that moment that Ray realizes maybe Fraser knows all about sleeping on the floor or punishing yourself or trying to gauge out the urge to keep hammering on something until it resuscitates.

 

"Me too," he says, managing to smile a little, he pulls on Fraser's shoulder until they can lean quietly together. "But maybe that guy's right, and every ending is just another beginning."

 

Fraser looks at him sidelong, impossibly close, and Ray knows he's right. That after all this, and in so short a time, the world's not going to end tomorrow. And he and Fraser get to start all over anyway, even without the apocalypse.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was begun sometime mid season five of supernatural, when the idea struck me in the small of morning. I began writing it well in advance of season six, and I will admit I only watched the firs three episodes of that season in real time, as they aired. I realized I needed to finish this fic, and signed on for the big bang that helped me complete it. The fic lay untouched for nearly a year, with just portions of it throughout written. I know it will be hard to believe that I began the fic early and drew no inspiration from season six, as I had not seen it at the time. I know this, because after I picked it back up, I began to watch season six. The major plot arcs - the dragons, Castiel's past, all of this was concieved and planned prior to me knowing any of the events of this latest season. As I write this note, I have partially watched the season, and stopped myself at episode twenty. I had prior stopped myself at episode 12, like a virgin, because halfway through the episode I realized how many things it had in common with my plot. Maybe I was wrong to continue watching, but I completed the dragon lore portions prior to finishing the episode. What can I do but relate my experiences and hope that others might possibly believe me? If I had completed the fic when I began it, my chances would be higher. Now, I will simply content myself with the knowledge that I had not failed to interpret the characters. I had not failed to see what I was slowly being shown. I had not failed to grasp something so fantastic about Castiel, that if I had simply waited to express it would have finally been expressed by the show's very creators.
> 
> Instead I'll just beg apologies for how late this fic is. For how it now is obsolete, clunking, and already covered by canon. For how I've delayed it so long as to render it out of context except as more of a Ray/Fraser story. The fic and I have had a rocky relationship from the start, but now that it's almost done (done, by the time you readers see this note), we have come to an understanding.
> 
> Beyond that, I apologize for my lore. For the much advanced Kowalski/vecchio switch - meaning I brought the whole Due South timeline forward in time to accomodate. I also fudged dragon lore, ennochian, and drew some of my information from the Supernatural novels, which are non-canon. The information that John had once hunted a dragon in the sewers of New York came from either the novel Nevermore or Witch's Canyon. At this point, I no longer remember which.
> 
> Lastly, there is a lot of me in Ray, and some of me in Dean. I apologize for abusing these characters to help myself, and for then inflicting this abuse upon you all. Why do we write if not to help ourselves an others? In my case, to tell a story that refuses not to be related.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Cold Reptilian Eye](https://archiveofourown.org/works/226948) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific)
  * [Everything You've Ever Heard of is Real](https://archiveofourown.org/works/226946) by [mific](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific)




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